Sherlock Holmes' Second Fall
by LadydeBalliol
Summary: So what happened after the Reichenbach Fall? I explore this with my own imaginings picking up the very same day. Sherlock learns just what Molly means to him. Is she more than just a handy pathologist? Here's my guess! Hope you enjoy it! #Sherlolly
1. Chapter 1

_**Sherlock Holmes' Second Fall**_

CHAPTER ONE

Sherlock Holmes awoke with a start. He lay on an unfamiliar sofa in an unfamiliar living room. Then, it all came back to him—the Fall. His wrist and knee hurt he discovered as he slowly sat up.

"Hello," a warm voice greeted.

He drew in a breath and replied, "Hello".

"How are you?"

"Sore."

"I'm sure you are. Here, let me see your arm."

He held it toward her and she said, "I had better put a bandage on that."

He watched her retreat and purveyed the room. It was all very typical of Molly—quaint,homey, and comfortable.

"Would you like some tea?" she hollered out.

"Yes, please," he replied, still looking about.

She turned her kettle on before she returned with her first aid. She sat down on the coffee table and nervously began to care for the cut on his wrist. "Ow!" he blurted.

"Sorry. My patients don't usually complain." She smiled at him and he gave a side-long grin back. She finished her task and left again to return her supplies and to finish the tea. When she returned she found him looking rather stunned.

"Are you all right?"

He looked at his bandaging. "Yes."

"No, I mean, on the inside."

"Splendid, I suppose, for someone who is presumed to be dead."

"It's only temporary."

"It's still inconvenient and terribly surreal."

"Yes, I guess it would be."

The look on his face was killing her. She knew John was on his mind. "It won't be long until you can tell him, you know."

"Tell who?" he pretended.

"John."

He looked around the room again.

"He means a lot to you, doesn't he?" she continued.

Drawing his languid eyes slowly back to her, he answered, "Yes."

"It's good to have friends."

"It must be."

She looked at him puzzled. "You have more than you know."

"I think I'm beginning to realize that." He grew uncomfortable, remembering the horror of earlier that day. "I, uh, I never said 'thank you'."

She shook her head quickly. "You don't have to."

"Yes, I do. Thank you."

"It was nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Well, I mean, I would do anything—rather, that is to say—"

"Don't worry, Molly. Words never have been your forté. I just can't understand _why_."

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked with a slight aggravation.

He shook his head. "No."

She held her mouth open, speechless. Something wasn't obvious to Sherlock? She didn't believe him. She got up to get some biscuits from the kitchen.

This gave him a moment to think. He added up in his mind why a woman would go through such lengths to fulfill a huge favor to a man and feel that is was nothing. He couldn't fathom the answer he came up with—it was too ridiculous. He decided not to pursue it.

She put the biscuit tin down on the coffee table and sat down, eating and gazing at Sherlock with disdain.

He hated the silence. "Do you need to go back to work?" he asked, studying the biscuit tin.

"No, I took the day off."

He looked up. "Because of me?"

"Yes."

"Oh." After a pause he began, "Listen, Molly, I, uh—"

"It's okay. Really. Just try to relax."

"Relax? Relaxing is boring."

"Have you not had enough excitement for the day?" she asked in a high pitch.

"I wish I had my violin," he remarked as an answer.

"Would you like me to get it?"

"I don't know how you could without getting Mrs. Hudson curious. No, it'll have to wait for Mycroft."

"When are you going to see him?"

"I don't know. Where's my phone?" he asked, looking around as if it were nearby.

"He has it. You chucked it, remember?"

"Oh, yes."

"It's not like you can use it, anyhow."

He was silent. It was beginning to set in that his life was completely over as far as everyone else knew.

"I suppose he'll call me," she added.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

He jumped up and began to pace. He felt like a caged animal.

She was alarmed, but not surprised. She knew to have him virtually trapped was going to be a tiring experience. If the situation weren't so sad, she would have giggled.

He began to rummage about, picking up a book or a curio, looking at it, then setting it back down. Between these actions and idle chatter, the next hour passed which seemed like an eternity. Finally, Molly's phone rang. She answered it, then passed it to Sherlock without a word. A short conversation followed and he passed the phone back. "He'll see me tomorrow, if that's okay with you."

"Yes, of course." She answered casually, but was elated that she got to 'babysit' him for the night. "Did he say anything else?"

"No. Cryptic as usual."

"I'm sure he'll have more information for you tomorrow."

"He'd better, or I'll go mad."

She had no reply for that, only pity. He obviously wanted to go home—back to 221b Baker St. where John sat sipping tea, clacking away at his laptop and Mrs. Hudson buzzed around cleaning and complaining. She tried to imagine what he must be going through, but knew that unless one had Sherlock's mind, there was no way of knowing what he was experiencing. There did seem, however, some sort of fundamental change in him. She studied him as he sat on the couch, clutching a cushion as if he was fighting it. "Did you want anything to eat?" she ventured. "I can fix you something or get some take-away."

"No."

"Telly?"

"No." he said a little softer this time.

"Uh—"

"Look, Molly—I just want to think, okay?"

She looked hurt. He actually noticed.

"If you don't mind," he said for the second time in a matter of minutes.

"No, of course not." She appreciated his knowledge of her feelings for once.

He flung the cushion aside, but then noticed the tear in his trousers at the knee. He played with the fray subconsciously.

Molly was about to make a remark about purchasing another pair, but knew to stay silent. He suddenly looked up, as if he could hear her thoughts. She blushed.

"You needn't sit here and watch me think," he snapped.

She sighed and looked away, as if irritated. "Is it not all right for me to worry about you?" she snapped back.

He was surprised how her tone with him was getting to be more self-assured.

"As much as it is appreciated, I find it distracting." He hoped that sounded right. He was never sure.

She got up, took up a book, and retreated to her bedroom. He watched her as she went. He wanted to say something else to her, but didn't know what or even why he should. He felt as if he were standing in quick-sand. The over-load of new and uncomfortable feelings began to fatigue him. His mind was both racing and numb with sadness. Even though he was the one who 'died', he felt as if everyone else around him had disappeared. That is, except for Molly. There she was—talking to him, caring for him, trying her best to not let him feel he was in this alone, and he didn't. _He didn't_. He was amazed, but he did feel that for at least the time being, whatever he had to deal with, she would, too. His deduction was correct, of course. She did love him—truly loved him. He told this to himself and still found it unbelievable, but it must be true. He was dumbfounded. Never did he think this would ever happen to him of all people.

He contemplated this for some time. She eventually came back out and forced herself to ask, "Everything fine?"

He didn't answer, but studied her. He looked at her so intensely, that she became embarrassed.

"What?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but for once could only let out his breath and close it back again.

"You know, don't you, that you can tell me anything—ask me anything"

"Yes," he answered. He began to play with the fray in his trousers again. He was silent.

"Well—" she started as she began to rise to leave.

"No, wait." He grabbed her forearm to hold her back.

She looked at him with curiosity.

"You said that I should know. I should know why you did so much for me today."

"Y-yes," she stammered.

"I…uh… The thing is, I have never been one to deal with anyone on that level. My detective work has always been my companion."

"I realize that," she softly replied. She looked down and he knew then he was right about her. What was he to do? To deny her would break her, but to do anything else, well, that scared the hell out of him.

"You see," he continued slowly, "I have always kept a clear mind on purpose. No emotional connections equal a brain that works properly. People count on my brain working. If I cloud it up with sentiment, the obvious won't be obvious any longer."

"So," she bravely asked, "are you going to continue this for the duration of your life? Are you to never let yourself be loved?"

She said it. There it was. Sherlock felt as if he were at some sort of cross road on a path he had no intention of taking. He looked at her and she could see the fear in his eyes—more than any she had seen all day. He breathed heavy and she wished she could somehow help him pass over this threshold into becoming a feeling human being. She knew John was to thank for bringing him this far, but now she felt as if it were up to her to carry him over the brink.

She trembled as she reached out and took his hand. As he held her hand he noticed within seconds the differences between hers and Irene's: Molly's small, shaking hand beheld a nervous, loving knowledge of him, not just a fascinated passion. He was amazed at her wanting to care for someone who in the past had been anything but civil.

"What…why?" he said without much thinking. "I mean, it's not like I have been very kind to you."

"Maybe because I could always see the deeper layers of you. I don't believe that you're _just_ a detective. You _do_ have a heart."

He nodded slowly. "Yes… Yes, you have, haven't you? How?"

"I don't know. Maybe 'cause I took the trouble to."

He knitted his brows.

She scooted a little closer.

"I…don't know," he muttered, then miraculously admitted, "I'm afraid."

She cupped her hand over his cheek and looked at him with sympathy. "I know. I am, too, a little. But I'd like to help."

Before he knew what was happening, they kissed. Who started the kiss, neither could recall. They drew together like magnets.

It wasn't like he expected. It felt so _right_. It was both restful and exhilarating all at one time. He opened his eyes wide to take her all in.

"Are you okay?" she asked. She worried that his complex mind may have blown a fuse.

He did a quick analysis. "Yes," he answered with a slight surprise at himself.

She smiled and remarked, "Well…that's good."

"I think… I think—"

"Oh, Sherlock, stop thinking!" she laughed with exasperation. She laid into him, her inhibitions gone. The dam had broken on her emotions and there was no going back now. Whether or not he could handle it, she wasn't holding back anymore.

His fear, his restraint and any ideals he had set for himself were at risk; this was (as far as he was concerned) a bigger risk than a potentially poisoned pill. Death was mild compared to this!

It both thrilled him and scared him. Would this dull his mind, clouding it with fluff that will only get in the way? His mind grew fuzzy as she kissed him. He could feel himself slipping away…

Even though Molly was the one trembling she was the one most sure of herself. Sherlock found himself doing things he never thought he had any desire to do, but Molly made it so easy. Good ole Molly—so lovely, so sweet, so honest. How is it he had ignored her for so long? Her hair smelled of almonds and her skin was ridiculously soft—so soft—it had to be touched.

He took in every detail about her, and she could feel him processing every move, every nuance, every sigh. Eventually, though, she tapped into Sherlock the Man. No more a computer, he finally let down his guard. No other woman could have done this—not even Irene Adler—for he trusted Molly so implicitly. She was the only one who could hold Sherlock's heart in her hand and not have the desire to crush it.

Making love to Sherlock Holmes was pretty much what she had imagined—methodical, but not passionless. Passion was the one thing no-one could say that he didn't have. In his investigations (or "the game", as he called it) it was an impassioned quest—a competition against the perpetrator. She would see the fire in his eyes and hear the intensity in his voice. This was no different, only now he found a new outlet for that passion. She was elated that she got to be a part of it. She was his sole focus.

Time slipped away. In fact, time, space and reality became unimportant; they were the only two people in the universe.

Molly reveled in the darkness for some time. She couldn't believe what had just happened! She turned to her partner and found him asleep—sound asleep. He had never seemed so beautiful. His aquamarine eyes were hidden under his drowsy lids, but the moon highlighted his incredible cheekbones. She gently ran her fingers though his curly locks ever so gently as to not wake him. She stared at him until she herself fell asleep.

CHAPTER TWO

Sherlock awoke again in an unfamiliar place, but this time without a startle. He stared at the ceiling, recounting all that had happened. He was so surprised at himself, in all honesty. He gave into a woman, but he didn't feel like he forsook his great mind. Instead, he felt empowered. He felt invincible. There was nothing he couldn't conquer. He turned to Molly. She lay with her long hair cascading wildly all over her pillow and made a little noise as she breathed. How could someone so unpretentious be such an inspiration? She was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

Her eyes opened. "Hello," his baritone voice greeted.

"Morning," she quietly replied. She smiled timidly, but was rather wondering if he was going to be embarrassed.

"Sleep well?" he casually asked.

"Uh-huh," she purred. "You?"

He thought for a moment. "Yes, actually. I don't ever remember sleeping that well." He thought that was very odd. Sleep was usually considered a waste of time to him, but not this time. He felt completely recharged.

He sat up with a start and was about to bolt out of bed. He stopped himself, turned to look at her and gave her a peck on the cheek and a quick smile.

She was thrilled, of course. Sherlock was quite obviously not the snuggling kind, but that peck on the cheek was everything. That meant he actually cared. She wasn't just an experiment on sex, or a distraction from yesterday's trauma.

He was up and gone to freshen up before she knew it. It only offered her a brief glimpse of the fine back she had admired. He peeped his head out and declared, "I'm going to take a shower. Could you make me some coffee?"

"Of course," she happily replied.

"No cream, two sugars," they said in unison. He smiled as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Shower taken and coffee made, she asked without hope if he was hungry for breakfast.

"Y-yes, actually I am," he said with some surprise.

She grinned at him and he looked down his nose at her. She put her hand up to his face and ran her thumb over that amazing cupid's bow of his.

"Eggs and toast would be good," he added.

She shook her head and smiled. "Very good, m'lord."

"Do you get the paper?"

"Yes, but I never have time to read it."

He went to the door and retrieved it. There he was—the once great detective had committed suicide plastered in ink for the world to see. He thought it ironic that he supposedly died yesterday and yet he couldn't feel any more alive. He threw the paper onto the coffee table. He didn't want to read it after all. All it did was remind him of what John and the others must be going through. He felt like Tom Sawyer. He preferred to stay in a good mood.

They ate their breakfast without much discussion. She could tell he was thinking and anxious to see his brother.

It was Molly's turn to bathe, and on coming out dressed into the living room, she could see Sherlock tying up his scarf. "Are they here for you?"

"Yes." He took a quick look at her outfit.

"What?"

"Nothing. You never did have an eye for fashion."

She rolled her eyes, but had to laugh that this leopard could never change his spots completely.

He was about to leave, but then snapped his fingers. He stepped back, gave her an intense, but lightening quick kiss, and then was gone.

Molly felt her cheek and then laughed out loud for several minutes.

The limo containing Sherlock Holmes pulled into a typical clandestine location where no-one goes of Mycroft's—his home.

"Come into library," he directed his brother. Sherlock did so, purveying the family estate he had not seen for years. He felt a sick qualm in his stomach with memories of his father lecturing him about scaring the help with his 'experiments'.

Instead, the library was pleasant with its curtains opened, allowing the sunny day to pour in. He walked up to the window, surveying the greenery outside.

"Have a seat," Mycroft offered.

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish. Are you well?"

"A bit scuffed up. Could you have not put more cushioning in that truck? I did fall a very long way, you know."

"Not without looking suspicious, and it's not like we had a long time to plan it."

"Have you found the hitmen?"

"Only one, so far. Nice of Moriarty to leave his phone for us to find."

With some hesitation, Sherlock then asked, "And you're positive he's dead?"

"If half his brains shot from his skull does the trick, yes."

Sherlock seemed to make a sigh of relief, but he still would not look directly at his brother.

"I have no doubt of us finding the others, but it may still be a few days. In the meantime, we will have your funeral just to ensure everything."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Plus, you will have to continue to hide out for a bit while longer. You can stay here, of course, and I'll arrange to pick up your belongings from Baker Street."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Now, Sherlock, enough is enough. There is plenty of space here, and I'm gone most of the time—."

"I prefer Molly's."

"But she has only a one room flat!" Mycroft then began to notice Sherlock's avoidance of eye contact, and he did seem awfully happy for someone who just died. "No… No, it's not possible!"

"What?" he asked quickly.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

"No, thank you," he said once again.

"Sherlock…" he emphasized.

The man drew his eyes down then looked at his brother. He was pursing his lips, trying very badly to hide a smile.

"Oh, my God," Mycroft quickly deduced.

Sherlock went back to his window with a rosiness in his usually placid cheeks.

Mycroft began to wail with laughter. "Well, welcome to the real world, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock went into ramble mode. "I really think it's imperative to contact everyone in Moriarty's phone, along with checking with LeStrade's—"

"We've got it covered, Sherlock," his brother reassured.

"I doubt that very much, considering I can't help."

"_I'm_ helping."

"Small consolation."

The ever-grinning Mycroft got up and put his arm around his brother to look out the window with him.

"You try not to drive Molly to insanity, and I'll do all I can on this end."

"Have you seen John?"

Mycroft's smile faded. "Yes."

"How…how is he?" he hesitated to ask.

"To be expected. He won't go back to Baker Street. We're keeping a close tab on him."

"After the funeral. Appearances are priority right now. Your friends aren't out of danger yet."

"As soon as possible, all right?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed. I have a high regard for Dr. Watson. He is a good man—a good, solid man who is just twisted enough to befriend you."

Sherlock was silent.

"Well, I have to get to work. I'll have your things sent to Molly's," he said with a smirk.

"Thank you," he curtly replied.

"No problem. Congratulations."

With an eyebrow raised, he asked, "For what?"

"Well, for one, pulling off this charade; and two, for opening your eyes to Molly. She's a lovely girl, albeit a bit dull."

A flashback of last night screamed through Sherlock's brain as he exited the house. "There you're wrong, Mycroft," he said with an uncharacteristic smile, "Molly Hooper is anything but dull."

He left Mycroft with knitted brows and wanting to know more.

Sherlock got dropped back off Molly's just in time to see her leaving. "Oh, hi," she greeted. "I had left you a note. I got a call to come in early."

"Oh," he said with some disappointment.

"Everything all right?" She followed him back in for a moment.

"Yes and no."

"Oh?"

"They have caught one of his henchmen, but who knows how long it will be until this is all over. Damn!" he startled her. "Why isn't there a 'me' to help me?!"

She forgave his vanity for desperation. She rubbed his back, but he walked away further into the living room.

"There's to be a funeral."

"Oh, dear."

He said nothing more, but paced the floor quickly.

"Am I to go?"

"I guess—no—don't. The less you are involved, the better. Plus, you may say something."

"I haven't yet."

He suddenly looked at her. "No. You haven't. Still…"

"I understand." She waited a moment to see if he was going to say anything, but he clearly wasn't. "Well, I have to go. Make yourself at home. Uh…try not to make a mess."

"Huh? I would do that?"

"Yes."

He looked rather hurt. He didn't want her to leave. She came over and kissed him. This seemed to calm him down somewhat.

"I get off at seven. See you."

Although he made no reply, he did watch her exit. She changed him, and he knew it. He worried about any negative effects on his intuition, but John then flashed into his mind. His friendship has only helped, and he hasn't let John's compassion for other's taint him. Sherlock was learning to have more faith in himself. He always boasted about his intellect, but now he could boast about his ability to concentrate around the lesser mortals. John grounded him—actually helped him to focus. How would Molly affect him? He knew one thing—now that he had taken her into his trust—into his heart—there she will stay. It was completely foreign to him to have these types of feelings, but he didn't want them to stop. His mind rambled…

Dr. Molly Hooper dragged her tired body into her flat to behold the devastation left behind by a bored Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't pretty. She sighed, then found him sitting on the floor in the bedroom reading a book. "Sherlock!" she implored.

Without looking up, he asked, "Did you know your internet is down?"

"No, I didn't. I thought I told you to not make a mess."

He glanced quickly and replied, "Sorry."

She then realized what he was reading. "That's my journal!"

"Yes. Interesting reading, although you are not afraid of bad syntax."

"Give me that!" She snatched it from his hands. She was mad, but she had to laugh. "What am I to do with you?!"

"Seems like you've had ideas for some time!" he teased with a silly face.

She was thoroughly embarrassed. She had written down her feelings about him, and now he's read them! Oh, tragic!

He got up and stood right in front of her. "And now you have me."

She felt like crying. _You have me._ He actually said that.

He still stood in front of her as if he wanted to ask her something, but was frozen. She had a feeling she knew what he wanted. He had discovered something wonderful and new and wanted to experience it again. She smiled, reached up to his long neck to pull it down, and kissed him. He was a happy man.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning Molly woke up, but did not open her eyes. She had slept hard and didn't want to get up. She then felt a finger touch her cheek, ever so softly. She looked, but the finger had disappeared. She turned her head to see Sherlock gazing at her. It was still amazing to her that he was there—in her bed—with her. She smiled and he smiled back.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," he replied and his smile faded.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. When do you go in today?"

"I don't. I'm off."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh," she answered, pleased to see him happy about it.

"Well, in that case…" He began to kiss her passionately and she reciprocated. She couldn't be a happier woman.

When they eventually got out of bed, it didn't take long for Sherlock to become bored. Molly looked around at all the boxes of his belongings and asked, "Well, would you like to put your things up?"

"My things?" He then looked at the boxes and became flushed. He never imagined _not_ going back to Baker Street, but he didn't want to leave Molly, either. "I…I…"

Molly looked down. She knew she had taken it for granted he would stay with her and she felt terrible. A confusing combination of rejection, guilt and anger tortured her mind. "You don't want to stay here…with me?"

He stared at her big, sad eyes and instantly felt he had gotten himself into a situation he knew of no way out. "I hadn't given much thought."

She ran back to the bedroom, crying. He paced around the coffee table in a mad panic, vigorously rubbing his fingers through his hair. He cursed under his breath and his heart beat wildly. He was tired of all these new experiences. They were exasperating him. He just wanted to go back to how things were before the Fall. He knew he couldn't, though. This morning was evident of that. He was pretty sure he had done the one thing he swore he'd never do—he had fallen in love with Molly Hooper. He finally admitted this much to himself. He sat down on the couch and put his face into his hands. "Damn!" He felt caged. It was bad enough he was stuck in this flat—

A thought occurred to him. Maybe he just needed some fresh air. Being seen in London, though, was not an option. He took a deep breath. He got up and knocked on the bedroom door. "Molly?"

After a few seconds a feeble answer, "Yes?"

"Let's go for a drive."

He could hear her get up from the bed and come to the door. "What?" she asked after she opened it.

It tortured his once fictional heart to see her wet eyes. "I really need to get out for a while. I've gone stir crazy."

She sniffed and nodded. It was a good idea. "Okay." She began to turn away to get ready, but he laid his hand upon her arm. She turned to him.

"I, uh…I'm sorry."

She looked down again.

"I…It's just…"

"I know. Too much too fast. That's me all over." She walked away.

He really did feel torn. Torn between Molly and the life he was always so comfortable with.

They were ready to leave and Molly made sure to check that no-one was around when they left. They got into her little car and took off. "Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go?"

"Just where I can be outside and get some fresh air."

"I know just the place."

She drove for about thirty minutes out of town to a little village. She pulled up and they got out. He stretched his long legs and she locked up the car, tossing her cardigan into the back seat. It was a wonderful sunny day. "Where are we?" he asked.

"Guildford."

"Ah."

"I had an aunt who lived here. She died years ago, but I loved the book shop they have here and I come out every once in a while when the city gets to me."

"Is that often?"

"Sometimes."

He studied her, thinking of how much he didn't know about her. He could also see that she was still upset, but he knew not what to say to make the situation better.

She could tell he felt awkward, and simply said, "Come with me."

She took his hand (which was still odd to him) and led him to her favorite book shop. There they shared a passion. Before they knew it, they were ransacking the shelves, constantly asking the other, "Have you read this?" and ending their quest with a large stack to purchase.

After putting their treasure trove into the boot of the car, they walked the little village somberly. Eventually though, Molly just had to say what was on her mind, whether or not Sherlock wanted to hear it.

"Look, Sherlock, I didn't mean to put any pressure on you. Lord knows you've had enough to deal with lately, but it's just, well, I like having you there, really." She rather trailed off and looked away.

He sighed and grumbled. He did not like this at all. "Can we not make any decisions just yet?" was his only rebuttal.

She looked at him to see his expression. "Yes, of course." She figured this was an improvement to a positive move back to Mrs. Hudson's, so she took it.

The day trip proved to be beneficial to both. They got the needed break and it kept his wandering mind somewhat occupied and out of her closet.

On the way back to town, her phone rang. Sherlock picked it up to look at the number and saw it was his brother. He answered it. They talked for a short while and Sherlock relayed Mycroft's news to Molly afterwards. They were fairly certain they had found a lead on the other hitmen, but would know for certain tomorrow. Tomorrow, however, was the day of Sherlock's 'funeral'. It was to be done, no matter what. Mycroft would take no chances.

Molly felt a wave of guilt come over her. How could she be putting pressure on him during all this? She felt terrible and was determined to keep him cheered up as well as well as she could.

He was quiet the rest of the way back and came into her flat without a word. He sat down in the middle of the couch and put his hands together at his mouth. He looked exactly the same a couple of days ago, and Molly still didn't know what to do.

"Tea?" she asked.

"Yes—no—coffee."

"Okay."

She fixed the beverage and brought it to him. She sat next to him, but he barely glanced at her. Instead, he looked ahead and said, "I must go."

"Go where?"

"To the funeral."

"But—"

"Hidden, of course."

"Oh. But, won't that be painful?"

"I have to."

His look was so sad her heart broke. She caressed his thigh and he looked down to her hand. He slowly placed his hand on hers. He wasn't used to this kind of contact. He was in pain, but he wasn't alone, either. It was remarkable how much better he felt knowing someone was sharing his hurt. He looked suddenly to her. "Thank you," he said softly.

"For what?"

"For…for caring."

"Well, I…I…" she was afraid to say it. She feared it would blow his mind. She did anyway, though. "I love you," was her explanation.

His eyes grew large and he breathed hard. He couldn't reply to that, of course, but internally it elated him.

"I'll take you tomorrow," she reassured.

"Thank you."

He finished his coffee then went to her laptop to fish around on the internet. There he stayed for some time and Molly just let him be.

He never came to bed that night, but was dressed and ready when Molly got up. Without much talking, she drove him to the funeral. There were plenty of trees for him to stay concealed behind, but still allowing him a view. Watching his friends mourn for him was heart-wrenching, yet he felt it was his duty to be there for them, so to speak. Seeing John, especially, tore at his very soul. Never did he have a friend such as him. He was more of a brother to him than his own, and he always accepted him, eccentricities and all.

He only stayed a few minutes—it was about all he could bare. "Are you all right?" Molly inquired.

"Hardly," he grumbled.

She didn't know what to say, so stayed silent

They went back to the flat and she explained that she had to go to work. He only made a vague reply.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek as she was leaving, but he had no reaction. His mind was still at the cemetery.

Molly did her best to get off at a decent time that evening. She was concerned about her flat mate and worried what he might do in his depressed state, but when she arrived home, he was not there. She thought it odd, but thought he may have just stepped out for some air.

She changed into something comfy and fed her cat. It was only when she sat back down to watch some telly that she realized that he had gone through the boxes of his belongings. In a panic, she checked them out. It was evident he had taken a large amount of them and had left to God knows where. She looked around, searching madly for a note. Eventually she found one on her pillow. It simply said, "Sorry. –SH."

She screamed and cried then called Mycroft. That was the only possible place he could be. Mycroft had not seen him, but he also wasn't surprised. He explained to her that Sherlock did things like that and to not be concerned. Molly refused to accept that and then went on a ramble about how it must have been her fault. He assured her it wasn't, but being a Holmes, found it very difficult to console the woman. He also had to break the news that his lead had fallen through. Sherlock still couldn't come back into existence, and that meant the situation was still critical.

He went on to explain, "I had sent you an email. I can only presume he had read it. I shouldn't worry though. My brother has a way of surviving under the radar quite well. He'll come around."

"When do you think this will all be over?" she asked in desperation.

"Soon, I hope. Believe me, I do worry. We are trying our best."

The consolation was only somewhat effective. Molly hung up and cried herself to sleep. She was tired, worried and heartbroken. She could think of nothing but Sherlock.

CHAPTER FOUR

Days passed and Molly was virtually unchanged. The man she had fallen so hard for was gone. She had admired him, worked with him, tolerated him, saved him, and then loved him completely. How could she possibly get over him?

She would occasionally call Mycroft who had no news for her other than they were finally getting somewhere on locating the henchmen. By chance, one had gotten into a gunfight in Prague. The identification of the one helped to track down another, so now it looked like it was only a matter of days.

"How are we to let Sherlock know?" she cried on the phone.

"As I've said before, Sherlock has a way of knowing all. Please don't worry!"

She could tell Mycroft was losing his patience with the emotional woman. She calmed herself down, thanked him then hung up. Maybe, just maybe, she would be seeing him again soon. It would be sooner than she thought…

After another long day at work, she sighed when she unlocked the door to her flat. She wished her head was already lying on her pillow. She turned on the light switch and got the scare of her life, for there on her couch, sat Sherlock.

She thought she was dreaming or hallucinating. Surely, this wasn't real. Yet, there he was sitting Indian-style in almost a meditative state. He turned to look at her. "Hello."

Tears came to her eyes at the sound of his deep, beautiful voice—that voice that could not be mistaken for anyone else's in her heart. She ran to him and held him tight. He slowly raised his arms to hold her. He had missed her as well. She showered him with kisses and apologies until it made him laugh.

"So you missed me, then?" he joked.

She rambled nonsensically for a few seconds about the worry and self-torture she had been through.

"I see you still haven't mastered complete sentences yet. Never mind." He placed his fingers on her mouth to silence her and stared hard into her eyes. He couldn't believe how her sad, dark eyes rattled him. It was clear that the time that had passed had worn on her. His heart pounded through his chest at the sight of her sweet face. He leaned in and kissed her hard.

She calmed down and her tears were dried. She could finally speak normally to him, so she asked, "Where have you been?"

"Taking care of business."

"Business?"

"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He turned to her and gave a sly grin.

"You mean…you…"

"Devil's in the details and Mycroft has never been good about details."

"Oh!"

A minute passed without a word. Molly's smile couldn't be larger. He was back. The love on her face was undeniable and he looked down and actually took her hand. "I, uh…I'm sorry."

"No, no, I am. I put too much pressure on you."

He said nothing, but kept looking at their clasped hands.

"And I don't have a problem if you go back to Baker Street, really. I mean, you're welcome to stay here, of course, but if—"

"Understood."

"I'm just glad you're okay." She was on the verge of crying again.

"Of course I'm okay. You should have more faith in me."

"Yes, I know." She smuggled up to him, but he didn't back off this time. He was beginning to grow accustomed to her company. He could smell her hair and found himself giving a kiss to her head. She was so happy that a couple of more tears fell before she fell asleep in his arms.

They woke up to the sound of Molly's phone. "Oh, God! What time is it?!" she asked in a panic. "I'm late for work!" She ran to the bathroom instead of answering the phone. Sherlock picked it up. It was Mycroft.

"Morning," Sherlock answered.

"Well, back to the nest, I see."

"Why not?"

"I guess you must be pretty happy with yourself."

"I usually am."

"Most would agree."

"I trust you have news? Or do you require a pathologist?"

"News, indeed. We've caught them, thanks to a not-so-mystery man."

"Lovely. May I return to the land of the living now, or do I have to stay with the undead a while longer?"

"From what I can tell, you are free and clear. We have got them to admit as much. I highly doubt there are any others, and if there are any, they would have gotten wind of Moriarty's demise and wouldn't care to risk capture for the sake of someone too dead to retaliate."

Internally, Sherlock was screaming for joy. He closed his eyes and sighed relief. "Well…" is all he could get out.

"I understand you have been put through the ringer on this, Sherlock, but remember all the others who have suffered along with you—Dr. Hooper for one. The woman went positively potty when you ran away on her. About drove me mad with phone calls."

Sherlock made no reply, but looked toward the bedroom where she was.

"I guess you'll want to see John next?" inquired Mycroft.

"Yes. I'll have Molly meet up with him"

"He's not likely to take it well. I rather wished I could see it, for I know he'll deck you."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, he probably will."

"Well, welcome back, little brother."

"Thank you."

He hung up. A rushing Molly ran out and almost hit him. "Oh, who was on the phone? Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

"And?"

"I am alive again!"

She jumped up and hugged him. "Oh, I'm so happy for you!"

"I'm coming with to work with you."

"Oh, okay."

They made their way to St. Bart's. Sherlock sat in silence, but Molly had her own thoughts screaming through her head. Would Sherlock go back to living with John? Was she only able to get close to Sherlock because of his situation? Where would things go from here?

She ran into work without much thought to the sauntering gentleman behind her. She apologized to her coworkers for her tardiness and when Sherlock strolled in, all eyes were on him. Some had heard he was dead—and yet, there he was. He followed her into the morgue and looked around with a macabre fondness.

So many hours he had spent at her microscope got him excited about getting back to work. The building itself, though, only brought sadness. He wasted no time wanting to contact John. That was his first priority.

"Molly, I need you to call John."

"It'll have to wait, Sherlock. I'm already behind.

He took her phone out of her purse. "This can't wait." He handed it to her.

"What do I say?"

"Ask him to come. You have something to tell him. Don't take 'no' for an answer."

She sighed, slightly frustrated, but knew it needed to be done. She did, after all, like John a great deal. He helped to melt Sherlock's icy heart.

John gave some resistance to coming to the place of Sherlock's death, but couldn't resist her plea. He would come over right away.

Sherlock spun around slowly on a lab stool, with his hands in prayer position as Molly did her work. He paid no attention to her slicing and stitching, but after a while made his way to a side room where supplies were stored. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"You'll have to tell him. I'll come out afterward."

"But—I can't—I wouldn't—"

"Yes, I know—words aren't your forte, as I have said, but I can't very well just be sitting here when he comes in, now can I?"

With scared eyes she stared at him. "No, I guess not," she replied softly. "Poor John," she thought, "having to hear it from me!"

It wasn't two minutes until the elevator dinged for the basement floor. Molly got butterflies in her stomach and wanted to hide. John made his way slowly in, remembering with angst all the times they had met there, working on a case with Molly.

"Hello, John," she nervously greeted.

"Molly," he quickly replied, but it was obvious he was not happy to be there.

"Please…have a seat. I'm sorry I had to have you come here, but it was important, I assure you."

"Well, I hope so, Molly. You know how I feel about the place, and the fact that I haven't seen or heard from you since…well, _since_." He paused, shaking his head and getting angrier by the second. "You couldn't even come to his funeral?"

"Well, I—"

"It tore my heart out to go, but I did, and you—"

"John, please," she begged, "what I have to tell you will explain. I mean, it'll tell you—oh, damn!"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Molly. I have no right to speak to you like that. I'm just—"

"No, I'm sorry. I should have called, but you see, well, I have to tell you about that day."

"What? No…" He got up and paced wildly.

"There is something you _have_ to know. You see, Sherlock had to die that day."

"No, he didn't!"

"Jim—Moriarty, that is—had shooters ready to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg LeStrade if Sherlock didn't die. He had to die in disgrace."

John dropped his head. "I knew it. I knew he wasn't a fake." He closed his eyes and Molly could tell he was on the verge of crying. She knew she had to get this over.

"So," she continued, "he asked me to help him."

He shook his head. "What do you mean, help him?"

"Yes, I helped him _fake_ his death."

John sat back down with his mouth agape. "What? No, no… I saw it myself. I saw him jump that day from this very building."

"Well, that is what it was supposed to look like."

John started to breathe hard and got close to Molly. He grabbed her shoulders. "What are you telling me?" he asked very sternly.

She swallowed hard to get the courage to say, "He's not dead." She moved back, afraid of how he would react.

He shook his head with a nervous jerk in disbelief. "Then…where is he?"

Out of the shadows of the little darkened room, Sherlock slowly appeared. John looked up, and then turned white as a sheet. He felt he was seeing a ghost. He got up and the two men slowly made their way to each other. "John." Sherlock finally uttered.

John blinked as he stared at the man he thought was dead. "God, it is you."

"Well, technically, I'm not God, though some say otherwise."

John smiled then grabbed his friend and held him tight. He was in disbelief, but at that same time was so incredibly happy. He cried tears of joy standing back to see Sherlock's face once again. He shook his head with a crazed look in his eye.

"You're going to punch me now, aren't you?"

"Believe me, I'm fighting the urge." He hugged him again and they eventually sat down so that Sherlock could tell him everything from the beginning.

Molly went back to her work without a word. It did her heart good to see them both so happy.

At the end of Sherlock's tale, John asked, "So where did you go afterwards?"

"Well, I stayed at Molly's for a few days, and then I had to attend to some business."

"Business?"

"Yes."

"You mean you went hunting for Moriarty's henchmen yourself," he stated with surety.

"Business."

"I see."

John turned toward Molly and hollered out, "Well, I hope he didn't drive you crazy during the time you got to watch him, Molly!"

She simply looked at him with a sheepish grin.

John, however, was not without his own powers of observation. There was a look, not so much in Molly's face, for her admiration for Sherlock was no secret, but in Sherlock's. He definitely looked at her much more than usual (which was usually none at all) and with almost a hint of a smile. A bond had formed between the couple, but to what extent, John would have to figure out…and figure out, he would.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER FIVE

The guys chatted for some time while Molly did her best to catch up on her work. John was constantly shaking his head, still trying to get over the fact he was no longer in mourning—his friend was alive and well.

"So…how shall we tell Mrs. Hudson? I'm scared she'll have a heart attack!" John half joked.

"I know. Obviously, you will need to do it, since you remind me constantly I am without tact."

"That goes without saying."

"So it seems."

"I tried to keep up the payments on the flat, but I'm a month back. She's been…well, very understanding."

"She is the epitome of compassion, our Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes." John then looked up to Sherlock. "I, uh…I've been staying with Stamford."

"I know."

"I, uh, I couldn't do it. There was just too much of you there."

Sherlock felt weighed down by guilt.

"But, hey! We can move back now and put all this behind us."

Molly gave them a quick glance, and although Sherlock didn't look back, he could feel her attention.

"Of course," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

John could tell a change had happened in his friend, but decided that it wasn't the place to inquire. At that moment, Molly dropped an instrument and cursed. They looked at her and she apologized. John turned to Sherlock, but he was still looking at Molly. John knew then that things weren't the same between them, but for better or for worse, he didn't know.

"Well," John started to break the tension, "I guess all that can be worked out, but we do need to tell Mrs. Hudson. She'll be beside herself!"

Sherlock tore his eyes away. "Yes, yes indeed!"

"Shall we?" John asked as he stood up.

Sherlock stood up as well, but stated, "Go ahead, John. I, uh, need to tell Molly something real quick."

"Oh. Sure." John said good-bye to Molly and left.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and went over to the woman. She smiled and said, "Well, that went really well. I'm so glad to see him happy."

"Look, Molly, I…" he trailed off.

"It's okay, really. I understand." The words did not match her sad face, though.

"I just need a little normalcy for a bit, that's all."

She shook her head vigorously. "Really, you don't have to explain. You've been through a lot." She hated that she couldn't wipe her eyes with her dirty gloves on and Sherlock's heart was rendered. He turned her to him and gave her a long, sweet kiss. He kept his forehead to hers for a moment.

"Don't…don't give up on me," he murmured.

She couldn't hold back the tears any longer. "Never," she replied, "…never..."

He abruptly left without another look at her and ran to the elevator. She was left to cry amongst her corpses.

When both men met outside, it was clear to John that Sherlock was quieter than usual. He was without his standard cocky air of superiority. He, in fact, appeared more human. He looked beaten. Was it the effect of Moriarty or Molly, he couldn't tell.

They hailed a taxi and made their way to Baker Street. Sherlock still felt nervous about being there, even if all the bad guys had been caught. He was beginning to think he'd never be back.

It was decided that Sherlock would hang out in Speedy's while John broke the news to Mrs. Hudson.

He rang the doorbell (since she wasn't expecting him), and she welcomed him with open arms. After inquiries of each other's health, he stated he had something to tell her that was going to be a great shock.

They sat down in her living room and he wasn't sure how to put it, but he did his best to explain it slowly and in detail.

"Oh, that's dreadful! That poor man killed himself for us?! Oh, heavens!" She wrung her hands and shook her head.

"Well, he only had to _appear_ to have killed himself."

"But why didn't he just fake it, then? Surely there could have been some way…" she asked innocently.

John chuckled. "Actually, that's exactly what he did."

It took her a few seconds to register what John was actually telling her. "Are you saying poor Sherlock isn't dead?"

He smiled and nodded.

"He's alive? That sweet boy is alive?!"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. He lives and breathes!"

"Oh!" She began to cry tears of joy and disbelief.

"Would you like to see him?"

"He's here?" she sniffled.

"He's next door."

"Oh, yes, please!"

He happily hopped up to get him.

The reunion between Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock was that of a military man coming home to his mother. The woman cried and hugged and kissed him until he laughed. "Yes, it's good to see you again, also, Mrs. Hudson. You're a sight for sore eyes."

She then went on to beg them both to move in immediately, for she had missed them so. Both men were more than happy to agree. It was settled. Things were to get back to normal.

John wasn't blind, though. Sherlock smiled and laughed, but his eyes beheld a sadness. He didn't know what to ask him, since he knew Sherlock fought every discussion when it came to affairs of the heart. He hated to be coddled.

Molly came home late that night. She had had the most chaotic day. Not only was her work busy, but her heart was stretched to the breaking point. She was back to missing Sherlock, though she was no longer worried for his safety. It was just straight heartache she suffered. Unfortunately, it didn't end when she came home. All of his belongings were gone—boxes, clothes, and violin—all gone. She dropped her purse and cried again. _Her_ life couldn't go back to how it was before. There was no way, for her heart was taken for good this time and never to be recovered. She cried herself to sleep.

CHAPTER SIX

Sherlock lay in his old bed that night—a bed he loved, but never thought he could feel again. His friend and colleague could be heard snoring from his room—so intensely happy to be home. Sherlock, however, stared at his ceiling, then one wall, then the other wall. He was happy to be home as well, but a deep, nagging sensation would not let his mind rest. He wanted normalcy, but the perception of it had changed. What was normal anymore? He knew what bugged him, but refused to admit it to himself. He flipped violently onto his stomach and screamed into his pillow. He could hear John snort and mutter, "Huh? What?"

Sherlock made no reply, hoping he'd go back to sleep—which he did.

He got up and put on his dressing gown and went downstairs. Even though it wasn't that cold, he got a fire going. He liked to stare at the flickering warmth. He picked up his fiddle and plinked at it quietly and subconsciously. Nothing worked. The beautiful brown burl of his violin was the some tone and hue of Molly's soulful eyes; the wild flames that licked the sides of the fireplace were exactly like the locks of her hair. Even the softness of his own silk pajamas reminded him of her lovely skin. He closed his eyes and cursed internally. All the clues were there and the truth was undeniable. She had done something to him which could not be undone.

The next morning John came down to discover Sherlock asleep in his chair. He was still holding his violin like a teddy bear. John looked at him with concern, but quietly went into the kitchen to see if there was anything to eat for breakfast. There wasn't. He got dressed and went next door to pick something up. When he got back, he found that Sherlock had gotten up and closed himself into his room. John was slightly disappointed not to get to talk to him, but knew he wasn't himself since his return. He waited around a while, but rightly deduced that he was finally getting some sleep.

John's curiosity eventually got the best of him. He knew very well that Sherlock would not open up to him, but he did know it had something to do with Molly. He decided to see her. He hailed a taxi and to St. Bart's. How different he felt about the place now! His heart and stomach could still feel the crush of the Fall, but he shook the memory out of his mind. He made his way to the morgue.

He found Molly in the lab, staring into her microscope. At his 'hello' she looked up to him with red eyes. She smiled, but it was clear she was not happy.

"Molly, what's wrong?" he asked sweetly.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. Didn't sleep very well."

"Oh? Are you ill?"

"I may be coming down with something."

"Let me see." He came over and put his hand on her forehead. "Yes, I think you are."

"Really?"

"Yes. Sherlockitis."

She gave a guilty smile and looked down in embarrassment.

"If it makes you feel any better, he didn't sleep well, either."

"He didn't?" she replied with almost a relish.

"No." He wanted to laugh so badly. "So, are you going to tell me what happened between you two? Because you know he won't tell me, but I hate seeing you both in pain, which quite evidently you are."

She breathed a heavy sigh and laid down her pen. On one hand she felt it was none of his business, but on the other, she really did need someone to confide in. He did want to help, after all. "I don't where to begin."

"How about the beginning?"

"Okay. Well, all I can really say is that day of the Fall, I think he must have realized how much I—I mean—life meant to him."

"Oh. Sherlock got philosophical? Interesting."

"Well, he realized how much I care for him."

"Oh?"

At this point, she got nervous and irritable. She blurted out, "We just got really close that night."

John blinked in disbelief. "Like, _really_ close?"

She gave a little nod.

"Sherlock Holmes? The same man who hates it when our dinner plates touch?"

"Look, maybe I shouldn't—"

"No, no, Molly, it's okay. I want to help. I hate seeing you both so miserable." He thought for a moment. "I guess I ruined everything having him move back."

"Oh, no. He would have left, anyway. I don't think he could handle all the changes."

"I'm sure it did perplex him, and he hates to be perplexed."

"Oh, John," she broke down, "I love him so much and I miss him."

Here, his heart broke for her and realized this was much more serious than he thought possible. He tried to comfort her as best he could, but he knew how that man got under one's skin. You rather hated him or admired the hell out of him, and here was poor Molly loving him with every fiber of her being. He honestly didn't know what to say to make it better.

"Look," he said at last, "you just need to give him time and be patient. He'll come around."

"Do you really think so?"

In all honesty, John didn't know for sure. The rules that applied to the average man went out the window with Sherlock Holmes. "I believe so," was his only answer.

He spent a few more minutes trying to console and cheer up the tearful lady before he left. He wandered about for a while before going home. He needed to think.

He made his way back to the flat. Sherlock was awake, but still in his pajamas. "Morning!" John greeted, although it was nearly noon.

"Morning," he replied drowsily.

"Trouble sleeping?"

"Yes, a bit. Strange to be back and all that."

"Yes, it is. Nice, though."

"Uh-hmm."

"Are we to tell the happy news to LeStrade today? I'm sure you want to get back to work."

"Happy news? Oh, yes. Uh, of course. Work…that would be good. Yes, a case, that's what I need." He seemed to be talking more to himself than John.

"Unless you're not ready?"

"No, no. In fact, I think my brain is stagnating."

"Ah, well, good then! Shall I phone him and tell him to come over?"

Still sleep-deprived, Sherlock shook his head a bit, rubbed his hair vigorously to get the blood flowing, then replied, "Yes, but give me an hour."

John did so while Sherlock got dressed and ready along with drinking a couple of cups of coffee.

He was awake but still contemplative when a solemn LeStrade entered 221B.

John welcomed him up to their living room and he got the shock of his life. At the sight of Sherlock his jaw dropped.

"Hello, LeStrade. Solve any cases since I've been gone?" the ghost inquired.

"What the—?! I don't believe it!"

"Believe it you must," said Sherlock with a wry smile and his hands held together.

"But…but…"

"Always so captivating a vocabulary you have Detective Inspector."

Then to Sherlock's utter surprise, the man came over and gave him a hug. Sherlock was beginning to get used to it. "I have to say it's great to see you, Sherlock, but why the fake suicide?"

The story was fully revealed to Greg and he listened in awe.

"They had a gun on _me_?!"

John nodded a reply.

"Good God." The man sat down and Mrs. Hudson magically brought in tea for them, that is, after she explained that it was just for this time, since it was a special occasion. She wasn't the housekeeper, she reminded them.

"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she asked LeStrade. "My boys are back home!"

The two men smiled at the woman and she made her way back downstairs.

"This is unbelievable!" Greg declared once again.

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to believe it," Sherlock quipped.

"It was so awful—everything. They said you were a fake, but I knew it…I _knew_…" the man trailed off in the shame of his participation. He buried his face in his hands overcome with guilt.

"Don't worry, LeStrade. It was all part of the game—of Moriarty's game. I not only had to die, I had to die in disgrace. You were just a pawn."

The man shook his head. "No, no, I should have stood my ground. My job is all about listening to your guts, and I ignored them this time. I should have known!"

"It's all over. It doesn't matter. He's dead. Next case," Sherlock said with intense seriousness.

Greg sighed and stared at the man he thought was dead for a minute. "It is good to see you, I mean it."

"Thank you," Sherlock replied and genuinely meant it.

They sipped their tea and discussed how the charade was done. At the mention of Molly, Greg asked, "So, have you been staying at her place all this time?"

"Not quite."

"Oh, you stayed with Mycroft, then?"

"No."

"Then where were you?"

"I did stay a bit at Molly's, but then I had some business I had to attend to."

"Business?"

John laughed at the similarity of their conversations.

"Ah," Greg answered, although he didn't really understand. "That kind of explains why Molly wasn't at your funeral. I had wondered about that."

"Yes, I didn't want her involved." Sherlock let slip. The two men looked at him with astonishment of his caring. John, though, wanted to smile. "Anyway," he said to distract their thinking, "I'm ready for a case when you need me, although you'll have to call John. I have no phone."

"Absolutely," replied Greg with joy.

He left their flat happy with the return of the eccentric sleuth. He had realized how much he meant to himself and the others in Sherlock's life. Sherlock was not an easy man to like, but you couldn't help but love him.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER SEVEN

For a while after LeStrade left, Sherlock seemed to ramble about the flat, picking up all the details of any slight changes that had happened since he left. All of his lab supplies that once sat on the kitchen table now sat in a box in the corner—the only packing done by Mrs. Hudson. He found a broken mug that he often used in the trash bin which he rightly deduced that John had thrown against the wall in anger. He was pleased to see his skull hadn't moved—an ode to the man who treasured it. He was happy to be home, but why didn't he feel happier with himself?

John watched him for some time, in no doubt of his conflicted feelings. He knew he needed to distract him somehow. Sherlock may be back, but it only looked like him—he certainly didn't act it. Without a case, he would usually be driving him insane and possibly even shooting the wall. Now, he was somber, reflective and sad. John decided to risk a question.

"Would you like to go visit Molly?"

Sherlock instantly looked at him. "Why would I?"

"Just to visit. Maybe she knows of a suspicious death or something."

Sherlock knitted his brows with an angry look, but went back to looking at skull. "I guess we could. LeStrade seemed to have nothing."

"Great!"

But at that time an unexpected visitor showed up—Mycroft.

"Oh, hello," greeted John.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I see you both are settling back in to the flat nicely. Home, sweet home."

Sherlock kept his attention to the mantle and John made an expression to Mycroft that not everything was hunky-dory.

He showed concern for his brother, but said nothing.

"LeStrade has come to see us," John added.

"Ah! Good. How did he take the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes?"

"In varied degrees, I'd say," John replied.

"You're unusually quiet, brother."

"Has no-one been murdered in this city lately?" he blurted out as he swirled around to see him.

"Ha-ha! Bored already. That's more like it!"

"We were going to see Molly and see if anything odd has shown up," interjected John.

"Molly?" asked Mycroft.

John nodded and Mycroft noticed Sherlock was back to rubbing his skull.

"Uh, yes, yes, that would be an idea." Although never bothered with affairs of the heart himself, he could see that his brother was afflicted a great deal. He was unsure what to do, but he knew one thing: he was in danger. "I can give you a ride there," he suggested.

"No, I've changed my mind," Sherlock declared all of a sudden.

"Why?" the two other men asked.

"Am I not allowed to change my mind? Where's the newspaper?" He began to rummage around violently. He called out for Mrs. Hudson.

After a minute she came up and said hello to Mycroft, who replied back.

"Do you have today's paper?" Sherlock impatiently asked.

"Oh, yes." She ran back down, bringing up the paper shortly. He madly went through it.

"Nothing, nothing, boring, dull, nothing." He slammed the paper down upon the coffee table. "What? I'm gone, so no laws are broken any longer? No murders, no jewels stolen, no impossible break-ins? Arg!"

The other three simply stared at the debacle. He looked up and saw their faces. He got up and began to grab his coat.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"Out."

"Presumably, but where?"

But Sherlock ran out without another word, leaving the others wondering.

"Oh, dear, poor boy," Mrs. Hudson sympathized, but then went back down stairs.

"John, please watch him as well as you can. This is unchartered territory we're going into. I have no idea how he's going to react."

"I can only do my best, Mycroft, but I can't make any promises."

"He needs us, but I'm afraid he needs Molly, too. He's torn."

"But he doesn't need to be. I don't think he knows that." He thought for a second. "Has he _never_ had a girlfriend before?"

"I don't believe he had even had a _friend—_before you."

Mycroft took his leave, reiterating his request for vigilance. John was left worrying.

Sherlock wandered about for some time. Without thinking, he made his way to St. Bart's. A familiar face greeted him. "Sherlock!"

"Stamford," he replied with a firm handshake. The man's perpetual smile was contagious.

"When I heard about the faking of your suicide, I cannot tell you how happy I was!"

"Thank you." He was genuinely pleased.

"I'm on a bit of a break, care for a coffee?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, that sounds good."

The man was a good distraction for Sherlock, at least until his concentration waned, but the man did have a few interesting stories of cases that had passed through the hospital. Upon discussing some of his interns, however, Sherlock grew bored again. The visit, though, proved to calm him and slow his thoughts down. He still wanted to see Molly.

He left Stamford and slowly made his way to the morgue. There she was, the origin of his confusion, looking so innocent behind the lab table with her ponytail askew. She was shocked to see him again so soon.

"Hello," she nervously said with a timid smile.

"Hello."

"I'm surprised to see you, that is, I'm glad, but—"

"I know."

"How are you?"

His eyes looked around wildly ad he subtly shook his head. He looked like he was going mad.

"Me, too," was her surprising reply.

He came around and dropped himself onto a stool. With his elbows on the table, he placed his face into his long hands. "Damn," he muttered.

Molly wanted to cry at the sight. She instinctively rubbed his back. She knew an inner battle was going on in his mind, but no-one could help him. It was something he was going to have to work out himself.

He rubbed his face and looked at her. He then placed his hands on her face and gave her a strong kiss. He then stared at her, breathing hard as if she gave him his very breath.

"Sherlock, you're killing yourself. You're killing _me_," she said softly.

"I know."

"I hate to tell you the obvious, but this can't go on. You're going to have to make up your mind, and just because you choose one way of life doesn't mean you are completely giving up the other. Do you _want_ a relationship with me?" She surprised herself with her own courage, but it had to be asked.

He looked at her with child-like innocence, which, in a way, it was. "I…I think so."

She wanted to scream with happiness, but held herself back. She had to say one thing. "Good, but that doesn't mean you have to leave the life you love. I would never stop you from doing what you do. The world _needs_ Sherlock Holmes."

He looked down, still with a sad face.

She leaned in and spoke softly, "And it's not like John would stop being your friend, either. It is only a matter of time before he finds someone, too."

He looked suddenly up at her with a terse expression. He had never thought of that. "You're right," he finally admitted. "You're right…"

"Plus neither of you would forfeit your friendship for anything or anyone, and I would never ask you to. I consider him a friend as well!"

He looked back down in thought, but breathing easier, and she came up to him, placing his head upon her heart. He slowly raised his arms to hold her and still couldn't believe how amazing it felt—and how _right_.

Then, miraculously, and without really thinking, he quietly said, "I love you, Molly Hooper."

She stopped breathing for a second, and he could hear her heart pounding ridiculously. Half crying, she replied, "I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Molly and Sherlock decided to meet later at her flat. She wasn't home five minutes when a soft knock at her door was heard. She opened it and in he came swiftly. Without a word, he gave a strong kiss, while turning her around, simultaneously shutting the door behind them.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed.

The sound of his name being shouted from her only made him crazier. He swirled her onto the couch, kissing her all the while. She broke out laughing.

"Look, look, we need to talk," she implored through her laughter.

"Talking's boring," he mumbled into her neck.

She knew there was no arguing with him, so she gave in. She really didn't mind.

Eventually, things calmed down and she got him to talking. He got up and nervously wandered about. Molly studied him as he did so.

"I really think going slow about, well, _us_, is best for you," she advised. "I know you're not ready to move out of Mrs. Hudson's, and I can understand that."

"You can?" he asked with true amazement. He didn't know there was a woman who existed that would be that patient with him.

"Yes," she answered gently.

"I'm not, actually."

"That's what I thought. I'm just happy to be in your life."

"You've always been, at least, for a few years now."

"I mean, a _part_ of your life."

"Oh."

She smiled at him. In a way, he was so innocent about it all. She knew she was going to have to muster up even more patience than she usually had with him. He knew nothing about having a girlfriend. _Girlfriend_. Was that what she was?!

"I said, do you have any more tea?" interrupted her train of thought.

"Huh? Oh, sure."

She fixed the tea and noticed his distracted look. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. No. I need a case."

"Has John started up his blog again?"

He picked his head up. "I don't know." He went over to her computer and found the site. There it was. It looked as if John had updated it that very day. He wrote of Sherlock's return from death eloquently and with affection. Sherlock was touched. He was not used to all this attention and love and it felt uncomfortable to him.

He shook himself away from his thoughts and said aloud, "Now, if LeStrade would just call me with the usual amount of confusion the Yard has over the simplest of cases, I'll be in business."

"Well, here's hoping for a good murder," proclaimed Molly. "Oh, gosh, that sounds horrible." She looked at him, intensely reading John's blog over again, and was in disbelief for a moment that he was there, in her flat, being lovely. She couldn't believe he had taken down his barriers for her. He loved her. "How would you like some wine?" she inquired. She was feeling romantic.

"More tea would be great," he answered without hearing the question.

She chuckled then got closer. "I said, would you like some wine?"

"Huh? Oh, uh… Okay, sure." He picked up her phone and texted John. "I really must get a new phone."

"Yes. We can take care of that this weekend."

Every time she said 'we' or 'us' or anything remotely denoting them as a couple, he winced. This did not go unnoticed by Molly. However, she didn't let it phase her. She was getting used to the idea that this was going to be a relationship like she had never had before. This one was going to take time—lots of time. "Patience," she told herself.

John picked up his phone and read the text that had come through, "Won't be home tonight. Text if client comes. –SH." He laughed and shook his head. He must be at Molly's, he thought. The idea of Sherlock being out of the flat and out of his hair made him feel as if his parents were gone for the night. "Well, what's stopping me?" He decided to hit the local pub.

He made his way out, chuckling all the way. "Sherlock's got a girlfriend! And it's _Molly_!" It provided him with the walk's entertainment.

The pub was crowded. A great and very important football match was to be coming on the big screen television at any moment, and he wondered if he should join the throng or find a quiet corner. He then caught a glimpse of a familiar face. "Greg!"

The detective inspector turned to see John and greeted him with joy.

"What are you doing here?" John asked.

"Ah, I made a bet against Anderson on this match and we decided to watch it together. He lives not too far from here."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Plus, it got me out of the house."

John made a sour face. "Things still not well?"

"Not really, no. Better just to stay out of each other's face at this stage. Where's Sherlock?" He looked around, certain to see the wiry man summing up everyone in the place.

A huge grin came to John's face. "Oh, he's with his girlfriend."

LeStrade barely let the words come out of John's mouth. "Girlfriend?! Sherlock Holmes? I didn't think he knew what to do with a woman if he had one!"

John laughed, "Well, I guess she's teaching him."

"Who?"

With extreme pride, he replied, "Molly!"

"What? No. Molly Hooper? But he's always such a beast to her!"

"True, but that's her cross to bear, if she wishes."

Greg sat down on a stool in disbelief. John noticed that the man seemed to be more put out with Sherlock seeing Molly than surprise that Sherlock was dating at all.

"Something wrong?" he asked, but before he could reply, Anderson came up with a couple of beers.

"Hi, Watson," he said passively. "Here, boss." He gave a pint to Greg, who gratefully took a swig.

John pondered Greg's almost angry look. "Do you have a problem with them dating?"

"Who?" asked Anderson.

"No, of course not," answered Greg.

"Who's dating?" Anderson asked again.

"Everyone knows he may sound vicious, but he doesn't mean to. She's aware of how he is. It's her choice."

"Who?!" exclaimed Anderson.

"I know, but, well, he is a bit high-maintenance for her. I guess I feel she deserves better, that's all."

"Arg! Would you tell me who?!"

"Who, then?" John asked without paying attention to Anderson. "_You_, maybe? Don't you think that if there is someone out there who can put up with all his idiosyncrasies and all his faults and still have affection for him, that he deserves her? You can have anybody—"

"Not anybody," interjected Greg.

"Well, a normal amount of people then, but who the hell is going to have patience for _him_?!"

Anderson gave up and went to the loo.

"Look, don't get me wrong, John, I'm not saying he doesn't deserve someone, just…just—"

"Not Molly?"

"Yeah," he finally admitted.

John didn't know whether to be defensive for Sherlock or sorry for LeStrade. It was clear the man was seeing the fate of his own relationship coming to an end and saw Molly as someone he would have liked to have gone out with. John shook his head and looked down. "I'm sorry, Greg, really, I am, but if _anyone_ in this world needs to learn how to use the heart that I know lingers _somewhere_ in that messed up psyche of his, it's Sherlock Holmes."

There was a loud commotion as the teams made their way onto the pitch.

Greg simply said, "You're right… I know. You're right."

John stayed and watched the game with the others. As he walked home afterwards, he didn't chuckle this time. Instead, he pondered. He knew what it was like to have his heart broken. It was like suffering a small death. What if things didn't work out between Sherlock and Molly? He recalled how the man reacted to Irene's 'death'. Would he have at least learned how to love, or would he then shun love forever? It made him uneasy. All he wanted was for everyone to be happy.

The following morning brought the sun to shining with all the glory it possessed. Molly, for the first time, woke up in Sherlock's arms in her bed. As much love as she felt for him, a little qualm of fear lurked within her. She realized at that moment just how much she cared for him. She never wanted this to end. This was heaven on earth to be held by him and to hear his heart beating so soundly in her ear. He was exquisite. The thought of losing him chilled her to the bone. He could never be replaced.

She dared not move. She wanted this moment to last forever. She stared at his profile and for one second, saw his eyes open to see her, but they then closed as if he had not woken up at all. He did, however, grip her shoulder just a bit more tightly.

Eventually, life set in. Her alarm went off, destroying the Elysium that existed. The man opened his eyes all the way and studied his lady. She smiled at him and he simply said, "You have a grey hair."

"You really know how to charm a girl, don't you? Try 'good morning'."

"Oh! Good morning."

"Besides, you probably gave it to me."

"I don't believe it's contagious, besides, I don't have any."

"No, silly. It's because you stress me out!" She tickled his ribs for revenge. Who would have thought Sherlock Holmes was ticklish? Yet, he was.

They laughed for a bit, but she got up to get ready.

"Where are you going?" he asked with the tone of a child.

"I have to get ready for work!"

"Work is boring," he grumbled.

"It can be, but amazingly, having fun doesn't pay the rent!" She gave him a good, strong kiss then proceeded to get ready. Sherlock stayed in bed, pouting.

She prepared for work quickly, but had to stop to laugh at the sight of Sherlock wearing his coat as a robe and sitting on the sofa.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing. Maybe I should buy you a robe for here."

He shrugged his shoulders. "This works."

She looked at him funny with a soft smile and sat down beside him.

"Yes?"

"I wonder if anyone thinks about how you can be so easy going at times."

"Me?!" Even to himself, that seemed preposterous.

"Yes, as long as you have a case, or kept busy, you're happy. Well, at least lately."

He smiled without replying.

"You used to look so sad."

He stopped smiling and looked down. "It helps when someone takes the time to…" he began, but trailed off.

"To what?"

Sherlock played with the buttons on his coat. "Let's just say a lot has changed since I 'died'."

She didn't know if that referred to her or just a general gratitude toward the people he realized were his friends.

She noticed the time, gave a quick peck to his cheek and said good-bye.

"Okay, bye," he said quickly and curled up in fetal position in protest.

She laughed and said, "I love you!"

He mumbled something inaudible and she left, still laughing.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER NINE

Detective Inspector LeStrade had a situation. What looked like a clear-cut suicide that had occurred overnight got complicated when they found out that the prescription pills she had taken were never actually prescribed to her. The Rx label on the bottle was a fraud. Problem was the body had already been removed to St. Bart's. An inquest was set up immediately and the man made his way to the morgue to make sure it went through.

He stepped into the laboratory to find Molly at work—or at least appearing to be working. She looked up with a big smile and greeted her visitor. "Hi, Greg!"

"Hello, Molly," he replied.

She noticed very quickly that he looked uncomfortable. "What's wrong?"

He went on to explain the case and she listened with intent and helped him where she could, but his attitude didn't seem to alter.

"Anything the matter?"

He looked down to her lab work and noticed a paper pad she had doodled on. The unmistakable name of Sherlock was written with heavy marks, arrayed with hearts and flowers. He realized the blush in her cheeks and the joy in her demeanor spoke for itself—she was in love. "No, nothing else. Just hate waking up to a case like this."

"I would guess so. She was quite young." She studied the woman's paperwork, and the blush left her cheeks. "She was only twenty."

"Horrible waste of life, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I still don't understand how anyone could harm such a young and beautiful creature."

She looked up and saw he was looking directly at her. She gave a startled expression and he immediately looked away. He quickly rambled his instructions and left.

It was about 10:30 that morning when Sherlock came into 221B Baker Street. He bounded up the stairs to find John perusing the newspaper in his usual chair, enjoying the quiet morning. "Hello, there!" John greeted.

"Good morning!" Sherlock answered happily.

"Well, aren't you in a grand mood this morning!" he declared with a grin.

"All I need is a case, and the world would be perfect!"

"Slept well?" John asked mischievously.

"Um, uh, I…yeah."

John chuckled.

"Anything in the paper?" he asked in desperation to avoid any more personal inquiries.

"Nothing of any grave importance. So, you stayed at Molly's?"

"Yes. Do we have any coffee?" He began to raid the cabinets.

"In the coffee pot. It's okay, you know."

"Yes, it's still warm."

"I meant about Molly."

"What happened to the sugar?"

"You'll have to open a new bag." John shook his head. Molly was a no-go subject.

"I'm going shopping today," he did announce.

"Really? _You're_ going shopping?"

"Why not?"

"Well, great! You can pick up some milk."

"Not for groceries."

"Oh. Oh?"

Sherlock refused to elaborate.

"What are you buying?"

"I don't know yet."

John watched him for a bit. "You're going to buy something for Molly!"

"Gotta take a shower," he muttered, and went off to his bedroom with his coffee.

John was happy for him—a bit concerned, but happy.

Meanwhile, LeStrade sat at his desk at Scotland Yard, holding an evidence bag in his hand and in deep thought. The mysterious pill bottle had him stumped. The label looked real, yet the doctor's name was bogus along with the Rx number not correlating from the pharmacy from which it supposedly came. He considered, and not for the first time, in asking Sherlock his opinion, yet he didn't want to see him. It completely blew his mind that he was involved with Molly—Sherlock, of all people.

Into his office came Anderson and Donovan. They had nothing for him except for a brief history on the young woman. She was a student of social sciences at London College and well respected among her family and peers. Her popularity would lead anyone to believe she had no enemies. She was amongst the top of her class and even volunteered at a nursing home.

"A nursing home?" caught LeStrade's attention.

"Yeah."

"Huh."

"We just can't find any leads," complained Anderson. "Just looks like your typical college student suicide."

"I dunno…" began LeStrade, "something isn't quite right." He looked up to them from his desk. "We need Sherlock."

"Well, he's gone, besides, he was a fake," chirped Donovan.

"No, he wasn't!" Greg exclaimed. "I mean, isn't."

"What?" asked Anderson.

Greg sighed and explained, "He's not dead."

"What?!" they asked in unison.

He made a gesture for them to shut the door, which they did and sat down.

He drew in a deep breath and began, "Truth is, his suicide was faked."

"But he was splattered on the pavement! Watson was a witness and it tore him apart!" interrupted Anderson.

"It was faked! Look, Jim Moriarty—who was real, by the way—was not only out to kill Sherlock, but to destroy his reputation. Sherlock had no choice. If he didn't go along with his plan, Moriarty's henchmen were going to kill his friends."

"What friends?" joked Donovan.

Greg gave her an ugly look of disapproval then slowly answered, "John Watson, Mrs. Hudson and…me."

"You!" they exclaimed.

"Yes, _me_."

"How do you know these hit men were for real?" asked Anderson.

"Well, for one thing, MI5 have them in custody with one of them confessing."

Reality hit the other two and they looked at each other. They began to think differently of Sherlock, even if they didn't want to. He may still be a 'freak', but at least he did have some morals.

They studied their boss' face, which was frozen in deep concentration. Greg was so full of different feelings for Sherlock, he was completely muddled. Admiration, guilt, and now jealousy and mistrust when it came to Molly, filled his mind. He shook his head and knew he needed to bury his pride. He slowly pulled out his phone and called John.

"Sorry, but he went out," John informed. "But, he has a phone now."

Greg felt for a second he could put Sherlock off for a bit, but to no avail. John gave him his new number for him to call.

He took another deep breath and dialed. Sherlock was quick to say he would be over shortly after he finished his errand.

It was done, and Greg was glad and rather proud of himself.

Sherlock hung up and went back to his shopping. Nothing caught his eye and he grew impatient. Then, off the main street, he saw a little antique shop. He went in.

The musty smell hit him and observant eyes were inundated with images of curios, furniture, paintings and bric-a-brac. The old lady behind the register greeted him and he gave a quick 'hello' and grin.

The sunlight came through the window of the little shop and landed upon a glass shelf. He drew toward it and saw a curious little figurine. It was a dark-haired lady dressed in Regency style. He picked it up and studied it. The base of her dress opened up to behold a little place for a small token or jewelry. He shut it back up and stood her up in the palm of his large hand. The shop lady got concerned by his indelicate handling and quickly asked, "Do you need some assistance, sir?"

He grabbed it swiftly and said, "Yes, I'll take this. Do you wrap?"

The purchase was made and prepared for gift-giving. Sherlock took his little parcel with more than a little pride in himself down to St. Bart's.

He found his lady preparing to go to lunch. "Perfect timing!" he exclaimed.

"What's that?"

"This…is for you."

She knitted her brows in disbelief. Sherlock Holmes bought someone—her—a gift?!

She placed her purse down on the lab table to open up her present with trembling hands. When she took the little lady out of her wrappings, she was astonished. Sherlock beamed with satisfaction, but his smile faded when he saw Molly crying.

"But I thought you'd like it!"

"I love it!" she cried.

"Then _why_ are you crying?"

"Because I'm so happy!"

He was completely perplexed.

She went on to explain, "Women sometimes cry when they're really happy."

"Oh." No, he did not understand. He was beginning to realize just what a different breed women were from men.

She hugged and kissed him and thanked him repeatedly. He explained the little hidden compartment. "I know just what I'll keep in it, too," she added.

"What?"

"My mother's ring. My most prized possession."

He was touched. This he understood. What he didn't predict, however, was how giving her something would make him feel like he was the one receiving. He was happy she was happy.

She dried her tears and placed her curio back into its trappings and put it away in a locker. She implored him to eat with her, but he declined. He had a case!

She gave him some more affection and gratitude and left to go eat. He then texted LeStrade that he was at Bart's and did he want to meet him at the Yard or there?

LeStrade figured there was not much use for him to see the body at that time.

Sherlock was on his way to Scotland Yard.

Greg got a knot in his stomach in anticipation of his visitor's arrival. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't deduce what he was feeling. He knew he had to play it cool. He told his coworkers that Sherlock was on his way and to be nice to him. They gave a short "yes, boss" and went on with their business.

Sherlock practically floated into Scotland Yard with amazement trailing behind him. Word had not gotten completely around yet of his miraculous reappearance, so it created quite a stir to those who thought he was dead. His satisfaction in this shock effect, along with his current feelings of elation from Molly, gave him an air of superiority.

He bounced in, jack-in-the-box-like, to LeStrade's office, startling the man from his paperwork.

"You rang?" Sherlock quipped.

"Hi, Sherlock, what do you think of this?" He pushed the woman's file to him to be read.

Sherlock sat down to study it while Greg studied Sherlock. He seemed different. He didn't have that dark, gothic cloud of doom that usually hovered over him all the time. Could Sherlock Holmes actually be in love? Ridiculous. Impossible, even. But yet, there he was—bright-eyed with color in his usually pallid face, making faces at the bad grammar in the report with an almost comical air. Even LeStrade could see those clues.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked.

"I think," he began slowly, shutting the file and tossing it back to him, "it's pretty stinking obvious."

"You always think it's obvious."

"Yes, but this is _really_ obvious."

LeStrade simply grimaced.

"Oh, come on, LeStrade. College girl, bogus doctor, nursing home? Piece of cake!"

"But she doesn't seem the type to get involved in anything illegal."

"They never are," he said with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, but I think you're wrong, Sherlock. I have a very odd—very strong—feeling that there is more to it."

Sherlock raised a brow to him.

"Well, you know you could be wrong. It _can_ happen."

There was something unsaid, but in the tone of his voice that LeStrade was somehow agitated at him personally. But, being Sherlock, he was not going to ask about anything personal. He filed it away in his mental LeStrade file and would mull it over later. Meanwhile, he agreed (with much doubt) to at least look over all the evidence. He would check out her flat and also study her corpse as well. He had nothing better to do.

He called John who would come with him to the woman's flat. In the taxi Sherlock casually asked John, "Is LeStrade upset about anything in particular? Especially in reference to me?"

"Since when do you care if he's mad at you?" is what John replied, but he knew the true answer.

"I don't, but I usually have the pleasure of knowing _why_ he's pissed at me."

John chuckled, but didn't want to tell Sherlock the truth. He simply said, "I don't think his marriage is going to last much longer. He's a bit on edge."

"Well, _that_ I knew."

"Yes, well, maybe you shouldn't rub it in so. Stop calling things beforehand—it irritates people."

"Just saving him the effort."

"Well, you don't _do_ that, Sherlock. People need to work that out on their own. You'll see one day."

Sherlock quickly turned to John. "You think Molly will leave me?" he asked with genuine concern.

John was instantly touched. "No. No, of course not. If anyone leaves anyone, you'll leave her."

Sherlock knitted his brows then turned back to the window of the taxi. John barely heard him mutter, "No, I won't," but he wasn't sure, though. He knew it was a precarious thing Molly had done and Sherlock's temperament and easy agitation were going to be tested. He worried for them both.

They reached the flats near the college and they were let in by the proctor who knew of their coming. On entering, it looked like any other college girl's room—the usual mess of books, papers, clothes and food. It couldn't look any more common-place.

Sherlock studied her corkboard above her computer. On it was pinned greeting cards from family and friends, reminders for undergraduate meetings and parties, and several photos of the once happy girl with her pals. There was even a flyer encouraging female students to vote at the next election.

Could LeStrade have been right? Was there something just not right with this case? Sherlock shuddered at the thought. He inspected the girl's desk. There, in the very back of one drawer, was a note. It was quite crumpled up, as if in the grip of a fist. He took it out and it read:

"Great work. Once more and we'll call it even.

-W."

He read between those lines instantly. He gingerly took the paper and placed it in the inner pocket of his coat. He looked around a bit more, but saw nothing of any importance. He beckoned John and they left.

After talking to a few of the girl's friends that was on Greg's list, they decided there was nothing left to do at the college.

"Did you find anything in her room?" John asked in the taxi.

Sherlock handed the note to him to see.

"Oh, dear," John commented.

"Yes, even you can see what that might mean."

"Thanks," he replied sarcastically.

"You know what I mean."

They then went to Bart's. He didn't figure he'd find anything on the poor girl's body, but he felt he should take a look anyway.

Molly greeted them both and only gave Sherlock a friendly look, still too shy to show any affection to him in front of John, which was good since Sherlock would have had none of it anyhow. He treated her as before. He never liked any emotional displays and wasn't about to start.

She pulled the body out and the men got to work. Molly went over the records, stating the results of the autopsy and the time of death. She died of an overdose of Vicodin, which basically shut down her liver first and everything followed afterwards. No matter how they searched, it seemed to be self-inflicted. It was suicide, that was for certain, but may there have been a person or cause for her fatal decision? Sherlock felt compelled to find out. For once, he looked—really looked—at the young girl's face. He saw an innocence in her features that made him wonder. He really wanted to know her whole story.

"Well, we've seen enough," he said at length.

"Such a shame," added John with a shake of his head.

Molly replaced the body into the cold locker and led the boys back up to the lab after cleaning up. "Oh, gosh! I almost forgot to tell you!"

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"She was pregnant."

The two men looked at each other. "Ah!" exclaimed Sherlock finally. "It's beginning to piece together!"

"What? Someone was blackmailing her about her pregnancy? Seems futile to me," remarked John.

"No. No. _Really_."

"Okay, then, what?"

"Well, she didn't get pregnant on her own, now did she?"

"Ah, you mean—"

"Yes, she was trying to hide _who_ the father was. I wonder why she would keep the baby in the first place? Young, bright student… I don't understand."

"Well, maybe she loved the father," Molly quietly added.

Sherlock turned to her. "That would make a promising academic destroy her future?"

"Yes," she answered plainly.

He was confused again. Women, in his orderly mind, made no sense whatsoever. He stared at her blankly.

"How do we know that she knew she was pregnant?" asked John with the voice of reason. "I mean, how far along was she?"

"About twenty weeks," answered Molly.

"She would have known then," John added.

They sat down in the lab and thought about the sad case in silence.

"Well, obviously we need to find out who Daddy was," Sherlock finally said. "We need to talk to her roommate. Too bad she wasn't there earlier…very inconvenient."

It was good to see Sherlock back in detective mode. John was happy running around with his old mate just like old times. It was, however, going to take John some time to get used to Sherlock and Molly's relationship. It was odd to say the least!

The guys went back to Baker Street and went over notes and interviews. Things were going fine until Sherlock tried to ponder it all. He covered his face with his hands then screamed aloud, shaking John up miserably. "What?!" he exclaimed.

"I can't—I can't think! Ugh! I knew this would backfire!"

"What would?"

Sherlock looked at him, but decided not to confide in him. "Nothing. Never mind." He leapt up from his chair and went to the window. He muttered to himself, and John noted his muttering had severely increased of late. It was as if he wanted to talk about something, but couldn't with another human being.

But John was no fool. He knew exactly what was vexing Sherlock. "You know, Sherlock…"

"Yes?" he asked impatiently.

"It won't last forever."

"What?" he asked with a quick turn to him.

"The mind-fog. It'll fade."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He was lying, of course.

John chuckled. "Yes, you do, and don't worry about it."

Sherlock stared at him without a reply, but did take a deep breath. He then turned back to his window and muttered again.

John had to laugh. Sherlock in love was just too funny.

"Yoo hoo!" came a friendly voice. Mrs. Hudson came in with some fresh biscuits right out of the oven, distracting Sherlock even more. "Thought you boys might enjoy some fresh biccies."

"Ooh, thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" John happily replied, who readily dove into them as Sherlock grumbled at her disruption.

"Want some, Sherlock?" she asked.

"No, thank you," he said sternly.

"Oh, is he on a case?"

"Not only is he on a case, but he's in love, so he probably will starve to death."

Sherlock turned back to the window with a wince.

"In love?!" the woman exclaimed. "With whom? Oh, congratulations!"

Sherlock grumbled loudly.

"With our Molly!" John answered.

Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands to her heart. "Oh, that sweet girl?! Sherlock, I'm so happy for you both!"

Sherlock wanted to crawl into a hole—badly. He thumped his head against the window pane.

Mrs. Hudson came over and insisted she kiss him on the cheek. He fought the urge to smile. He found his violin and began to play random notes, just so the others would stop talking. John said loudly to Mrs. Hudson, "I think he's taken all he can now! Thank you again for the biscuits!"

She shook her head with a smile and went downstairs. John looked occasionally from his notes to study Sherlock. His playing had dwindled down in to a soft melody unknown to him. But then with one violent scoot across the strings he ended and put the fiddle down on the desk.

"Do you have her list of professors?" he suddenly asked.

John jumbled through the notes and found the list and her classes and then passed it to him. "You're going to interview them?"

"Yes, first thing in the morning. I have an idea."

"Oh, yes?"

"Still speculation—I'll know more tomorrow."

"That would make sense."

"What?"

"What you're speculating."

"You know what I'm speculating?" he asked with a doubtful smile.

"Yes. That it was a prof who got her pregnant and that she was getting answers for tests from him."

"I'm impressed, John."

"Like you said—this one isn't difficult."

"Obviously, if someone like you can solve it."

"Thanks," he said sarcastically.

"Apparently, you're still a notch above LeStrade and Company."

"Wow…that's _almost_ a compliment!"

"Really an insult to LeStrade."

"Ah…"

Sherlock grinned. "I have a reputation to uphold. I can't be passing out compliments—even to you."

John had to chuckle.

Sherlock then received a text. It was Molly asking if he was coming over that night. He replied back, "No. Working on a case." She wished him luck and a good night. He was pleased she didn't make a big deal about it.

John watched Sherlock as he texted away and pondered how Molly could have the patience for him. To be his friend and flatmate was one thing, but to tolerate him on any more of a personal level (as much as he hated being personal in the first place) must be completely trying. His respect for Molly grew—along with an edgy doubt to her sanity.

The next morning John came down to find Sherlock ready to go. It was clear he hadn't slept, yet he was restless. He rushed John and grumbled at the amount of time it took for him to have his toast and coffee, but John paid no attention. Without much speaking they made their way to their interviews. They went to the college where most of the professors had no desire to spend time talking to someone who wasn't the police. They were far too busy and important to deal with a 'consulting detective'—that is, except one. Professor Murray of Social Sciences was very happy to assist, although he felt he had no relative information about his poor student. He described her as very bright, and indeed a fire cracker, preaching her political and social views on the world around her with zeal. The men listened with complete attention and he ate it up. He looked more at the sympathetic face of John and continued with his laments of losing such a great student.

John nodded with a sad expression, while Sherlock took in every detail about the man. It didn't take him long to deduce a complete profile on the man and was looking quite bored by the end of it.

They gave their thanks and took their leave. "Well, he was more helpful than all the others combined," noted John.

"Yes, wasn't he?" Sherlock growled.

"What? You think he's suspicious because he has _good_ manners?"

Sherlock stopped walking to make his point. "No, I think he's suspicious because he offered half an hour of useless information that we already knew. Plus, his hand was telling a different tale."

John thought with knitted brows.

Sherlock gave an aggravated sigh. "You have gotten rusty, haven't you? He couldn't stay still! If he wasn't tapping his pen, he was clinching his fist. If he wasn't clinching his fist, he was tearing the rubber off the sole of his shoe. If he wasn't—"

"Okay, I get the picture. Maybe he's just a nervous guy, or had too much coffee or something."

"No, no, no. You don't take one thing and separate it from everything else. It's all one, big picture!" he exclaimed, making the shape of a picture frame with his hands. "Just nervous—fine. Just evasive—fine. Just over-talkative—fine. Altogether—_not_ fine!"

"Ah," John consented. "So what's next then?"

"We find out what he's hiding…and who wrote that note!"

The bloodhound had smelled blood—Sherlock was on the hunt. They came back to the flat at the insistence of John wanting something to eat. As he ate his sandwich, Sherlock hit his laptop, searching for any information on the professor, until his phone got a text. John looked at him, wondering if he would look at it. The old Sherlock wouldn't, but he was curious. What Sherlock did do was make a face. He closed one eye and grimaced. John almost choked on his food trying to stifle a laugh. Given this distraction, Sherlock threw his head back in aggravation. He looked at John to make sure he wasn't going to die, and when he was sure of it, he went ahead and looked at his phone. It was Molly with the simple question, "Will I see you today?"

He didn't reply. In actuality, he didn't know. Most people would have replied so, but Sherlock Holmes never used indecisive sentences. He would let her know when he did. He went back to his searching.

About an half an hour had passed when LeStrade came by. John looked up from the notes he was compiling to greet him.

"Yeah, I got off early to go to a meeting near here, so I thought I'd stop by and see what you've come up with."

John went on to explain their talks with the young woman's professors as Sherlock texted Molly with an answer.

"So do you suspect Professor Murray of anything?"

"We don't know yet," was answered by John just as Sherlock handed something he printed out to Greg with his reply, "Yes."

Greg looked at the paper with a grim face. The professor had a history, it seemed. He had left the last job as a 'suggestion' from the dean. Apparently, he had had a 'slight indiscretion' with a student there. Things were beginning to add up.

Sherlock went downstairs and began to put his coat and scarf on.

"Where are you going?" asked John.

"I'm clocking out for the day."

John chuckled and quipped, "All right then. See you tomorrow."

Sherlock have a sly grin and left. John turned to Greg and asked, "Tea?"

He looked at his watch and said, "I guess I have time for a cup, but then I have to go."

"Important meeting, is it?"

"Yes." Greg looked up with a forlorn face and continued, "She's filing for divorce."

"Oh, Greg, I'm so sorry. So you want some whiskey in your tea?"

"Ha, yeah."

They sat down at the table to have their tea.

"I just can't believe this, John. I just can't. It's like a world gone mad! I'm a hard-working, caring man who's losing his wife and Sherlock—the jerk he can be—is going out with Molly!" His exclamation ended with a slam of his fist to the table, which made a saucer crash to the floor.

"Now, Greg," John consoled as he helped him pick up the shards of ceramic, "we've talked about this. Molly isn't the answer to your problems. Nothing is, really. It's going to be hell for a while, but you'll live. People get divorced every day."

"Oh, hell, I know. I just—I always thought—well, she's just so sweet. Are you sure he'll treat her right?"

Then, at that moment, Sherlock appeared in the doorway of the kitchen—like a ghost.

"Sherlock!" Greg moaned.

"Oh, no," John muttered.

Without a word, Sherlock went to his desk, retrieved the forgotten mobile phone, and went back out.

John grumbled another, "Oh, no."

Feeling even worse now, Greg left. John offered whatever consoling words he could, but in reality he was more concerned with Sherlock.

On the taxi ride to Molly's, Sherlock thought long and hard. He was going against all of his own reasoning and history. Would he be kind to Molly? Would he hurt her in the end as John intimated? He was in the dark about himself as much as anyone else. One thing he did know was that Molly deserved the best. She was incomparable.

The taxi arrived at her flats and he got out, but did not go in immediately. He wished he had a cigarette. He paced about a bit, but then suddenly ran up the stairs two steps at a time. Whatever speech he had prepared, however, disappeared from his mind the moment the door swung open and her beaming face enlightened his heart.

With a kiss she added, "I've missed you!"

He stared at her. He had never heard that phrase addressed to him before.

She smiled at his expression and begged him to have a seat.

He threw his coat and scarf upon the chair and plopped down in the middle of the couch. He declined any refreshment, but she brought over some wine and glasses anyway.

His silence was unnerving her as she poured herself a glass. "What's going on?"

"Just working on a case, although it's not much of one. Suicide."

"Yes, the girl."

"Oh, yes."

"I meant what is going on in your mind?"

He looked at her, thinking it odd how she knew something else was bothering him. "I'm wondering if you aren't making a mistake. Seeing me, that is," he admitted.

"I'm quite sure I'm not." She answered calmly, but a flame lit in her eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"LeStrade thinks you're making a very big mistake, and I'm not completely in doubt of his accuracy this time. I think it's a first."

She sat her glass down and came over to him, straddling his lap. She took his face in her hands and with her deep eyes, captivated his attention. "Now listen to me. I am not a child. I am my own person. Not you, nor John, and especially not Greg LeStrade are going to tell me who I should and shouldn't love. My heart is my own, and if I wish to give it to you, it's my bloody business!" She gave him a long, passionate kiss, ensuring he could give no rebuttal. It almost worked.

"But I've never been…responsible for anyone but myself. I don't…I don't know that I can."

To hear Sherlock Holmes utter any such confession of uncertainty was unbelievable. Always sure of himself was the norm—this was incredible. She knew she must be special to have him show such a vulnerability.

"The mere fact that you worry is already proof that we'll be just fine. I'll let you know if you're mistreating me!"

He laughed. "Yes, I believe you will." He threw her down on the couch, making her scream with laughter. Her cat ran under the chair in fright, but his mistress was in bliss.

The couple enjoyed their evening together on into the night.

On parting the next morning, it was felt by both (even though neither admitted it) that it was getting tougher to do so. There was always one more kiss, one more touch, one more glance.

"Sherlock!" John hollered once more to his companion, shocking him from his reverie of the previous night.

"What?" he sourly replied.

"You haven't listened to a damn thing I've been saying, have you?"

"You've been talking?"

John threw his notebook down and put his hands on his head. "Is this case just too boring for you, or do you just have something else on your mind?"

"Yes," he answered flippantly.

John had to smile, even though he fought it. "Both then, is it?"

"I need to talk to Mrs. Hudson." He got up without another word and went downstairs.

"Okay, then…" John muttered to himself.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Hello, Sherlock, dear. Oh, good, maybe you can help me. My drain is plugged up in the kitchen and I can't get a man in until late today."

He sighed and rolled his eyes, but went into the kitchen to help shove a wire hanger down the drain. The water finally subsided. "You really must stop washing your dog in the sink," he grumbled as he rolled his sleeves back down.

"I know, I know. Let me fix you a tea, dear, and help yourself to a muffin."

He perked up at the word 'muffin' and took one happily to the table like a little boy.

With the tea brought, he made his inquiry. "Just how difficult do you think it would be to get the other flat working?"

"Well, there is that damp."

"Yes."

"It would take a bit of money, but that doesn't mean it would be impossible. It does stay cozy in the winter. Why? Do you know somebody who wants it?" she eagerly asked.

"Yes. Me."

"But…I don't understand."

"I want Molly to move in."

"Oh, Sherlock! That's wonderful! Are you getting married?"

"Married?! No, no…no." His heart raced at the sound of the word, but oddly, he wasn't completely afraid of it. Nevertheless, he replied, "I just thought it would be convenient to have her nearby and our flat isn't big enough for three people…especially with all her ridiculous knick-knacks." He laughed at the thought of her figurine collection. He found it odd of himself to chuckle at them instead of scoffing at them. He was scaring himself! He then realized that Mrs. Hudson was talking.

"…and there really is more room in B. I'm sure John wouldn't mind."

"Do what?"

"I was saying that if he doesn't mind, he should move downstairs since it's smaller."

"Ah! Yes, I see. Okay, I'll talk to him."

He dashed back upstairs before Mrs. Hudson could get another word out. She shook her head with a smile at his eagerness.

"John!"

"Yes? I'm right here."

He spun around to see him the kitchen. "How would you feel about moving?"

"Moving? Are you kidding? We love it here!"

"Well, actually _you_ would be moving, not me."

"You're kicking me out?"

"Possibly…in a sense."

"What did I do?!"

"The thing is, there is not enough room here for three, but Mrs. Hudson does have that flat down below."

"The damp basement?"

"Oh, I would pay to have it renovated. Well, Mycroft, technically," he trailed off with a tilt to the head.

"But, why—ah! You want Molly to move in! Congratulations!"

Sherlock made no reply, but a reply wasn't necessary with his blushing cheeks. "I haven't asked her yet," was all he growled.

"You're asking me first? I'm honored." He really was. "So I'm to move downstairs?"

"Yes, if you don't mind. It's smaller than this one, see?"

John nodded. "Well, yes, okay, _if_ you help me renovate it. I will not live in damp."

Sherlock gave a little hop in happiness.

"Let's go look at it again."

"Yes, let's!"

The guys went down and Mrs. Hudson happily obliged. The rising damp was seen, but it was primarily kept to the living room area. The other rooms seemed fine, other than they were in bad need of cleaning and a new coat of paint. The kitchen was fairly up-to-date thanks to its landlady, but it lacked a refrigerator. All in all an easy fix-up pardoning the sealing that the side wall required to resist the damp. John seemed pleased. "I could see it working, but you're going to help, okay? No getting out of it!"

"Sounds boring."

"Not really. We have the Case of the Decrepit Flat. Clean and paint and we'll have results!"

Sherlock snarled his nose, not excited about doing any manual labor.

"Maybe Molly will lend a hand as well!" John suggested with a grin.

This cheered him up a bit, the thought of Molly with paint on her nose.

John turned to Mrs. Hudson and said, "Knew that would work."

She smiled so warmly at Sherlock, it embarrassed him.

"Well, you had better go ask her then, while I discuss rent."

Before they could say 'snap' he was gone, hailing a taxi for St. Bart's.

He bounced into the morgue without any decorum for the dead that were cued up for their post-mortems. A co-worker of Molly's shook his head at the happy man and left with thick folders in tow. Sherlock looked around and eventually found his love in the store room in the corner. He snuck up behind her, causing her to drop her empty containers all over with a squeal. "Dammit, Sherlock!" she laughed. "So much for sterile!"

Without a care to her containers, he picked her up like a feather and swung her around.

"What are you so happy about? Solved a case?"

"Yes, in a sense. I solved my problem!"

"What problem?"

"You living too far away."

"I'm, like, ten minutes away from you!"

He shook his head. "Too far."

"Then…what are you suggesting?" she asked with a pounding heart.

"Move to Baker Street."

"What?!"

"Yes. It's all worked out. You're moving into B with me, and John's getting the basement—I mean, the C flat."

"Are…are you kidding?"

"Why would I kid?"

"True." She was astonished. He wasn't joking and she wondered if he even realized the significance of this event.

He swung her around again and then kissed her passionately. She reciprocated with every ounce of her being. She was so incredibly happy. She knew what a big step this was for him. He had to do things in stages—he was not one to plunge.

After a few breathless minutes, he decided she must start moving in immediately, even before John moved downstairs. She laughed at his eagerness. She convinced him to wait until the weekend and she could assess the space and John's new flat. She was not going to inconvenience John after all he had been through with Sherlock. He deserved better than that.

Sherlock was on his way out the door when Greg came in. "Oh, hi, Sherlock," he greeted awkwardly.

"LeStrade," he answered coolly.

"How's the case?"

"The case? Not much of one. Have you found out where she got the pills?"

"Donavan's on it."

"So 'no' in other words."

Greg grimaced. "She's been going through the nursing home.

"Well, I've got another project I'm working on that is much more interesting and less obvious."

"What's that?"

Sherlock raised a brow, but gave no answer. "Oh, nothing of _your_ concern, LeStrade."

Greg watched him leave then turned to Molly, who had already gone back to working. "What's he on about?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, nothing, I guess. I mean, who knows with Sherlock?" she replied nervously.

"Yeah," was his reply, but he didn't believe her ignorance. "Look, Molly, I rather wanted to talk to you, and I know it may be none of my business, but—"

"Greg, if this about me and Sherlock, there's nothing for you to worry about. I am a big girl."

"I know. I just…worry about you."

She wanted to get mad, but the look in his sad face showed genuine concern.

"Look, there's nothing to worry about. We're fine. In fact, we're—" she silenced herself quickly.

"You're what?"

She hesitated, but decided it might as well be said. "I'm moving in."

He blinked and staggered back a step. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're moving to Baker Street?" he asked in a high-pitched tone.

She nodded.

"What about John?"

"We're fixing up the basement flat and he'll move in there."

"I see."

The confusion and sadness in the man's face compelled her to say something. "I'm sorry, Greg, I really am, but I love Sherlock and I actually believe—in his own way—that he loves me."

"I didn't think he was capable of it."

"Well, he changed a lot since his, well, fall."

"You're saying he was born-again?" he asked with his first glimmer of humor.

"Ha-ha. Yes, I guess you could put it that way. It really affected him."

"But how do you know he feels the same?"

"He gave me a present."

"A present?"

"Yes, a little antique lady figurine, and I know it means something because he usually teases me about my curios."

He looked the young woman in the eyes and they sparkled. Her cheeks were glowing. You could even say she was beaming. "Well, I just pray he doesn't hurt you, or he'll answer to the rest of us who do care about you."

"I'm a big girl, Greg," she repeated. She then gently turned him around to face the door. "And now this big girl has work to do!"

"Okay, okay, but promise me you'll call me if you need anything."

"Yes, all right, I promise. And Greg?

"Yes?"

"I am sorry, you know, about your wife and all."

"Thanks," he replied quietly and then left.

CHAPTER TEN

So, for the following weeks Sherlock, John and Molly spent their off time fixing up 221C. Although John was doubtful at first, he began to get excited at the prospect of having his own place. Getting Sherlock to help was proving to be just as aggravating as they anticipated, but he did have more enjoyment out of repairs than he would let on. It made a nice change from destroying things.

Her occupation and coming to the flat to work even more began to wear on Molly. She found herself exhausted. She was helping John with some final decorating one evening when he happily said, "Hey, hey! Done! We should celebrate!" He turned to look at Molly who had her hand to her head. "Hey, you all right?"

"Just tired. Really worn out. Too many hours at work lately."

"And doing all this work isn't helping, either! I'm sorry!"

"Oh, no, John! Don't worry about it. I'm the reason you're having to move in the first place. I get this weekend off, so I'll be able to catch up on some rest," she reassured.

"Well, let's hope Sherlock lets you rest." He studied her and was still concerned. Her usual bubbliness had left her. "You'd better go get some sleep now. You really do look exhausted."

"Yes. I think I will. Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, dear, and thank you so much for all the help."

"Oh, I enjoyed it, believe me!"

She went up to find Sherlock to tell him good-bye. He was concentrating on his laptop when she came and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He shook his head with distraction. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight," he said with a quick glance, but then looked again at her. "Are you all right?"

"Why do I keep getting asked that? Do I really look that bad?" She looked in the mirror on the wall and saw her flushed look.

Sherlock actually got up in concern and studied her with knitted brows. He held his hand to her forehead. "A little warm. Get some sleep." He gave her a quick kiss and sat back down.

"Yes, dear. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Molly."

She made her way back to her messy flat. Boxes were everywhere and she sighed at the mess. She fell upon her bed with great relief. She had almost fallen asleep in her street clothes when a frightening thought hit her. She sat up, heart pounding and ran to a calendar she kept in her bathroom. "No… No, couldn't be. No, impossible!" Her trembling hand put the calendar back. "It must be something else. Oh, God, that's even worse!"

As exhausted as she was, she slept unwell that night with worry. She dragged her weary body to work early with anxiety and found a doctor she knew well the minute she got there. She asked her for a favor that she was more than happy to provide for her.

Blood was drawn and a quick test performed. The result, however, gave the doctor a reaction she didn't expect, for Molly began to weep with hysterics.

"Molly, dear, is it that bad?"

"Yes! You don't understand. I did everything right! How could this happen?!"

"Well, you know only one thing is a hundred percent proof, don't you?" The doctor replied with a sympathetic smile. "Are things not that well between you and the father?"

_Father_. "Oh, dear God!" Molly thought, and cried again.

The doctor became very concerned and did her best to calm her down.

"He won't understand!"

"What do you mean?"

"He's just—well, special."

"_Special_?" She was confused.

"I mean, he's doesn't handle situations well."

The woman then became defensive of her friend. "He doesn't hit you, does he?"

"No! No, never. He would never do that, but..."

"But what?"

"He may hurt himself."

The doctor's face became grave. "You can't work today. You need to go home."

"But—"

"No. Doctor's orders. You don't need this stress and try to work on top of that."

Molly settled down a bit and thanked her friend profusely.

The doctor wished her luck and reassured her as much as possible.

Molly excused herself from her boss and cried herself all the way home. She was in complete disbelief. "I'm a scientist for crying out loud! How could this have happened?! I did everything to prevent this just because I know him— Oh, God!"

She barely made it back to her flat safely, driving through a wash of tears. "How can I tell him?!"

She cried herself to sleep on her bed, only to be woken up by a text. Sherlock, of course, wanting to know when she would be getting off work. She put the phone down and lay back down, hugging a pillow. Through her grief and worry about her relationship with Sherlock, she hadn't stopped to think about the actual news. She was pregnant! She had a baby within her that wasn't just hers, but Sherlock's too! She finally smiled. As far as she was concerned for herself, she was happy. It really was too bad she knew to expect rejection from him. She knew he was not going to take it well. She also knew putting off the inevitable wasn't going to help any, either. Best to get it over with…

She made herself a peanut butter sandwich, not being able to remember the last time she ate. While she had her sandwich, she sadly accepted the fact that she was going to lose Sherlock. There was no way that he could handle this—he could barely handle a relationship.

Relationships, however, if they are to be tolerated and dealt with truthfully, come with the ups and downs of life. If Sherlock was to learn about life (as normal people know it), then he would have to learn that much was out of his control. That was going to be his hardest lesson.

She prepared herself as well as possible and texted him that she would be over soon. She got in her little car, buckled her seatbelt and sighed. She tried hard not to think of the situation, of how he would react, or of his sweet face in general. She felt like she was disappointing him. She let him down. He finally gave in and trusted someone with his heart, and now she was to dump a responsibility upon him that he would not be able to cope with.

It did no good. She was crying as she turned onto Baker Street.

She sat in her parked car and tried to dry her tears and calm down. She prayed for strength. She made her way upstairs to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, tapping his fingers together. "Took you a while," was all he said.

"Yeah."

He sat up and scrutinized her with knitted brows. "You've been crying. Why?"

She drew in a long breath. "You'd better sit down."

He did with fear in his heart. He didn't like this.

She sat in the chair opposite. "I don't know any way to tell you this other than to just blurt it out."

"I prefer it that way," he said bravely.

"Even though I took every precaution… I'm pregnant."

He stared at her with wide eyes. She wondered for a moment if he was even breathing. "And…" was all he could get out at first. "And I… I'm…"

She didn't take it as an insult. "Yes, Sherlock, you're the father."

He stood up; eyes still wide open, and began to breathe hard. So hard, in fact, that she started to panic. "Are you okay?!"

He made no reply, but she realized he was hyperventilating. She ran to the kitchen to rummage about until she found a take-away bag. "Here, breathe into this."

He shook his head.

"Do it!" she demanded.

He did. After a minute, it settled his breathing. Unfortunately for Molly, it opened the floodgates of his mouth. "Why?!" he screamed.

She flinched. "I told you. I did everything possible to prevent it! These things just happen, okay?"

"How do _I_ know you did?"

"What are you saying, Sherlock? Do you think I did this on purpose?!"

"Just seems pretty preposterous that we haven't been together _that_ long and you _say_ you did everything—how do I _know_?"

"You've got to be kidding me!"

The accusations continued to fly and get even more elaborate as John came into the front door of the flats where he met Mrs. Hudson.

"Good Lord, what's going on?" he asked.

"I don't know, John," she cried with concern. "They've been at it for a while."

Boom! went a door. Molly could clearly be heard crying.

"Should I be nosy?" John asked Mrs. Hudson.

"I think maybe you should, dear."

John bit his lip and ascended the stairs. He knocked on the partially opened door. "Hullo?"

Molly was curled up on a chair by the fire, crying.

"Hey, hey, what's the matter—if it's any of my business?"

"Oh, John—I think I'm going to be sick."

He helped her to the bathroom, then knocked on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? It's me!" All he heard was a moaning. "Can I come in?" More moaning. He opened the door anyway. "You all right?"

Sherlock lay prostrate cross-wise on his bed. He turned his head away from John.

"What's going on?" John persisted.

"She didn't tell you?" he asked without turning his head. At that moment, however, the worst was happening with Molly.

"Uh, no, she didn't have a chance. Poor thing's not feeling well."

Sherlock sighed and remained looking away.

"Okay, well, I guess I know when to butt out," John relented.

But Sherlock lifted a hand. "No, wait." He rubbed his face with his hands. "You might as well know. You'll know eventually, anyway." He curled his hands under his chin and looked straight ahead, still unable to look John in the eye. "She's pregnant."

"Molly?!"

"Yes," he growled.

"You and Molly?" he asked with excitement.

Sherlock turned his head back towards the wall.

John wanted to be happy, but saw that he would have been the only one. "I take it you're not happy."

Sherlock finally turned his head straight to him. John could see his eyes were as red as Molly's were. "Why would I be?"

"Why _wouldn't_ you be?" he asked crossly.

Shocked, it took a second to answer. "I'd make a _terrible_ father!"

"How do you know that? I don't think so."

"Are you kidding?!"

"No."

Sherlock buried his face into the bed.

"Look, I know your family was never warm or anything like that—" (moan) "but I don't believe that you would be that bad of a dad, and of course, Molly will be an _excellent_ mother."

That silenced Sherlock's moans. To think of Molly being a mother was very moving to him in an inexplicable way. He wasn't done though. "So am I to get a regular job and do regular things with regular people? God! That sounds so boring!"

John sat down on the bed beside him and patted his back. "No, because that's not who Molly fell in love with."

"But fathers don't become consulting detectives!"

"How do you know? You're the only one!"

Sherlock had to smirk at the remark.

"Look, you need to talk to her. She's a good woman, Sherlock, and she really needs you right now." Sherlock rubbed his head vigorously in frustration. "And I'll tell you something else."

"What?"

"I'm excited as hell! I'll be Uncle John!"

Sherlock smiled, then dragged himself up off the bed to find Molly. John silently left the flat.

Sherlock found his lady fixing herself some tea in the kitchen and he came up to her. She didn't look at him. "I'm sorry," he said and meant it.

She looked at him, but said nothing.

"I… I shouldn't have accused you of…_anything_. I just..." he trailed off.

"I know." She went to go sit by the fire again. He followed her. He watched her sit down and stared at her so intensely, that she had to ask, "What?"

He came over and knelt down beside her, took her hand, but then laid his head upon her lap which, of course, made her want to cry more. With her free hand she caressed his soft curls. He looked up at her and realized that she was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened in his life. "You're too good for me," he confessed.

"Well, then, that's for me to decide."

He looked around, as if he was listening to something or someone, but then stared at her with large eyes. "Marry me."

She opened her mouth in shock. She couldn't believe what she heard. "Are you sure that's what you want to do?" She wouldn't have it any other way.

He really thought for a second. "Yes."

"Oh, Sherlock, you never cease to amaze me!" She leaned down and kissed him and held him tight.

Oddly enough, Sherlock talked no more about it for the rest of the night, even though Molly was dying to. She figured he was digesting all that was happening in his own way.

He sat at the desk in the living room, going over the notes on the college girl. Scotland Yard had managed to find the source of the bogus prescription (of course, with much more time than Sherlock would have needed), but something still bothered him about the case. He felt there was blackmail involved, and he knew the professor had something to do with that.

He fiddled about with notes, his computer and even a couple of magazines as if Molly wasn't even there. She began to feel like she would prefer to go back to her own flat than to stay there and be ignored. She came to him, gave a kiss to his head and said, "Goodnight." She picked up her keys, breaking his concentration.

"Where're you going?"

"Back my flat. I have to get up early in the morning. I don't want to disturb you."

He stood up and came to her. "Look, Molly… I, uh…"

"It's all right, really. It's all been a shock—to both of us."

He could tell she was on the verge of tears yet again. He caressed her cheek and gave her a strong kiss.

"Goodnight," she repeated and left. For a woman who was getting married and having a baby, she was anything but happy. She felt she had cornered a wild beast until it submitted. She knew she wasn't singularly at fault, but felt guilty all the same.

She changed for bed and pulled down the bed covers. She was about to climb in when she heard a knock.

She peered through her peephole to see Sherlock. She opened the door for him and he came sheepishly in. "I couldn't—you know—after all that—not be with you tonight."

Tears came to her eyes and she hugged him for dear life. He reciprocated. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. This was the way the night should end, she thought.

She noticed he was much gentler with her than previously, which seemed to only add to the ending. He lay upon her afterwards and she felt water upon her shoulder—whether it was sweat or tears, she couldn't tell.

He fell over to his side of the bed and gazed at her. He drew his hand over her until he stopped over her belly. Then it hit him—really hit him. There was a little human being in there that he helped create. Certainly his most amazing chemical reaction! He leaned over and gave a kiss to the child within, causing Molly to cry once more. He then kissed her on the mouth and they both fell into a hard, deep sleep.

The next morning she left a sleepy Sherlock to just make it to work on time. She felt dizzy. Physically and emotionally she was drained. She was so glad it was Friday and that she would have the weekend off. But before she could get to the morgue, she was intercepted by her doctor friend who wanted to know how she was. She had gotten very concerned after the reaction she got yesterday.

"I'm okay," Molly answered drowsily.

"How did he take it?"

"About like how I expected it—but then, not."

"What?" she laughed.

"Not well at first, but then he settled down."

"Oh, good!"

"He wants to marry me," she said, much in disbelief herself.

"Wow! Do you _want_ to marry him?"

Molly gave a shy smile and replied, "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Well then, congratulations! Sounds like it's all going to work out!"

It was hard to believe how much could change within a day. She was beginning to let herself be happy.

Sherlock took his time getting back to Baker Street. The second he made it into the front door he ran smack-dab into John.

"Hello!" he greeted with his usual big grin.

"Morning," Sherlock replied with a quick smile.

"So, how are things?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right. How's the flat?"

"Great! I think the chimney needs some work, though."

"Not surprising."

"No."

"Coffee?" asked Sherlock.

"Sure!" John happily replied.

They both made a motion toward the other's flat.

"Oh, you meant at my place," realized John.

"Right. I have none."

"That's what happens when you don't shop," he teased. "Come on in," he said with a wave of his hand.

Sherlock surveyed the cozy little flat. It was small, but seemed to fit John to a 't'. "Molly helped you decorate?"

"Yes, quite a bit—a lot more than you!"

Sherlock grumbled, but found a chair to relax in.

John got the coffee brewing then asked, "So have you gotten used the idea of being a daddy yet?"

His eyes rolled again and he let out a sigh. "I suppose so."

"Everything will be fine. I'm sure of it."

"We're getting married."

"What?!"

"I presume you can come? We haven't set a date yet, though."

"Well, yes, but are you sure?"

"What? You don't think she wants to marry me?"

"No, I just mean, well, I'm surprised, that's all."

"Well, that is what one does in these situations, isn't it?"

"Only if you really want to these days. I mean, do you truly love her?"

Sherlock flinched at the question. He hated getting personal with anyone, even John. He answered him, nonetheless. "I believe so."

"Okay… Good." John gave a nod then proceeded to fix their coffees. "Any more work to be done? I've had some inquiries on my blog. People are fascinated with your reappearance."

"Are they? Why?"

"I guess they find you interesting—or your cases, at least."

"Well, hopefully this one will be tied up soon. Not much mystery to it, though, so they'll have to be satisfied with my fascinating personality."

"Is that so?" he joked.

"Yes, but in the meantime, let's find out what happened to Carrie Harris. Can you come up to go over some things?"

"Yes, of course. Give me a few."

Sherlock left to go upstairs, taking John's cup with him. John shook his head laughing and followed him in a moment.

John noticed right off that Sherlock was taking the case much more seriously than he ever had. It wasn't that much of one, even by John's standards, but Sherlock seemed determined to keep occupied.

They mulled over notes and facts and determined that the blackmailing was the key. If they could figure out that, the characters of the tragedy could be named easily. They decided to interrogate her friends a bit more.

The young people at the college who knew the girl best were more open and honest this time around. The shock of her death had worn off and they were thirsty for justice. Unfortunately, they still could not give much more information other than intimations about her relationship with her professor. The flirtation with Prof. Murray was well-known, but when asked if any knew about whether she was being blackmailed, all they could say was that she had been very anxious of late. Not much help, but the kids promised to ask around and let Sherlock know what they could find out.

"That note, John," Sherlock began as they walked off campus, "may be all we have, but we'll squeeze it until it bleeds some information!"

"That's quite a visual… Ah! That's why you had them write their addresses!"

"Bingo. We can start with a little hand-writing comparison."

"Are we going to talk to Prof. Murray again while we're here?"

"No, I don't believe so. Not yet. Easy enough to see his part. Let's go home and check out these signatures."

And that they did.

"Okay. Well, obviously we have the initial 'W'. We will presume it is for his actual name and not some sort of pseudonym."

"'Him'?"

"Obviously. We have William Banes, William Jackson, Owen Watts, and Charles Wellington."

John held the note in his hand, comparing what he could to the list. "Look, the 'O' in Owen's is nothing like the 'O' in 'Once'."

"Yes, plus he's ruled out anyhow."

"Why?"

"He was just released from hospital with pneumonia and had been in for two weeks. This note, I guarantee, was written the day of her death. It's what had pushed her over the edge."

"Ah."

"No, my best bet is William Banes."

"Yeah, I see it."

"I think we need to talk to him privately, don't you?"

John nodded in agreement.

Sherlock placed his phone call to the young man on the pretense of getting some more information on the professor. He shared the class with the deceased, so it made perfect sense. Plus, what young man would pass up a free beer in a pub?

William Banes was a friendly guy—jovial and always smiling—exactly the kind you think is up to no good. He greeted Sherlock warmly and beers were ordered.

He was very sympathetic to Carrie's family and sorry for her demise. He described her with every positive adjective in the book.

"Do you recognize this note?" asked Sherlock, with zeal, quite surprising the young man. He flung out the tell-tale piece of paper and held it right in front of his face.

"I, uh, I… No. No, I don't." The blood drained from his face and the permanent smile disappeared. It was obvious to the guys he was lying. He held strong, however, and would not elaborate.

"I see. Too bad. It's our only real lead, you see," Sherlock played along, putting the note back into his coat pocket.

William regained his composure and proved to be impossible to get anywhere with. Sherlock gave up and they took their leave.

Going home, John asked, "Was it wise to show the note to him?"

"Sometimes you have to shake a few trees to get some apples. We'll see how fruitful we'll be now."

Back at Sherlock's flat, John made a few gentle inquiries by phone to the girl's family. He didn't mention the pregnancy, for they seem to know nothing of it, but they couldn't say why she would do such a thing as suicide. They were all baffled.

"Well, what do we do now?" asked John.

"Wait. William will get nervous and do something stupid. I _hate_ waiting, but it's all we have."

"I see."

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

"Cluedo?" Sherlock ventured.

"No," John replied adamantly.

"Rummy?"

"You don't remember last time?"

Sherlock grumbled then checked his watch. "Good."

"What?"

"Nothing."

Within five minutes, however, Sherlock's phone rang. Molly had gotten home. John smiled, knowing what was 'good'.

She said she was going to take a badly needed nap, then come over.

After he hung up with her, he caught John smiling at him. "What?" he asked defensively.

"She makes you just…come alive!"

Sherlock made a stern face, but asked, "She does?"

"Yes."

"Mmm," was his only reply.

John decided to leave Sherlock to his reverie. "Let me know if you hear anything."

"I will."

Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked at the strings. He then realized he was smiling for no reason.

Molly came over around 7:00 and asked if he had eaten anything. Of course he hadn't, but agreed to take her out for some Chinese down the street.

Things seemed to have settled between them. They both were still dealing internally with the fact they were going to be parents. They weren't prepared, but in an unsaid agreement, they were not going to fight about it. They truly did have a mutual respect for each other and neither wished to quarrel with the other after last night.

They walked out into the cool air to walk down to the restaurant. Molly put her arm through his and he looked down to her in wonder. He was beginning to let himself enjoy her. He gave her a soft smile and asked her what she was going to order. They discussed the menu as they turned the corner.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked a voice in the dark.

The couple froze. "Yes?" Sherlock answered slowly.

"I wanted to talk to you."

Although Sherlock couldn't make out the young man with his jacket hood down low over his features, the voice he recognized right off. "Well, William, we are on our way to dinner, might we make an appointment for tomorrow?"

"No," he said nervously, and with the distinct sound of a hammer going back upon its gun, Sherlock quickly guarded Molly against the building wall.

"Well, it is possible I may have an opening later this evening."

"I'm going to meet with you right now," he demanded. "I think you've been a little too nosy around campus, Mr. Holmes. There's nothing there you need to know, okay? Carrie killed herself—nothing else is important."

"There definitely isn't anything more important than life."

"Yeah, and I'm telling you right now to stay away!"

"Fine, fine. Wasn't that interested, anyway," Sherlock remarked, hoping he would calm down. "Say, why don't you uncock that pistol, since we've worked things out?"

"Because I don't believe you!" he yelled.

Sherlock's heart was about to pound out of his chest with worry for Molly. He never cared if he risked his own life, but it was unfair she should get involved in this. He regretted the risk he took with this man earlier. He had no idea it would come to this. "Look," he begged, "what do you want me to do? I'm really quite open to suggestions."

"Just…just stop!" It was clear the young man had no plan and began to panic, which caused Sherlock to fear him even more. He turned to see Molly cowering against the wall behind him. "I don't think you realize, Mr. Holmes," the William continued, "I have a very successful system in place there and I really don't need your interference."

"Oh, I understand. Business and all that."

"Yeah… Yeah, so just stay away!" He backed up away slowly, but still pointing the gun at them.

Sherlock began to breathe again as William retreated, but as fate would have it, he tripped in his escape. The gun went off. Sherlock found the bullet had missed him. William dropped the weapon in reaction and began to run. Sherlock started after him until he heard a scream from behind. He turned around in horror. The bullet may have missed him, but it had hit Molly. He ran back in a panic without a second thought to William.

"Molly! Where are you shot?"

She looked toward her arm.

"Oh, thank God." He gently unwrapped her arms to survey the damage. "You're going to be fine, okay?" he reassured. He took off his scarf and tied it about her wound. He took his phone out and called the police. He told them very quickly what had happened and demanded an ambulance. Once he hung up with them he called John and had him come to them.

Molly shivered and Sherlock held her tight. It was clear she was in shock—she said nothing. "Molly?" he asked with wide eyes full of fear. "Are you okay? He just got your arm. You'll be all right. Can you answer me?"

She looked at him, but only blinked her eyes.

"Oh, my dear," he said with so much remorse. This was his doing. How could he be so stupid? He had gambled with someone else's life other than his own. He reproached himself and apologized to her. She remained silent. He held her tight and slowly started to rock her back and forth.

"Oh, my God, Molly," John said as he saw the couple huddled on the ground. He took a blanket he brought with him and wrapped it around her.

"She won't say anything!" Sherlock exclaimed. Now that John was there, he could do his own panicking.

"She's in shock, Sherlock. She'll be fine." He did what he could for her arm and tried to comfort them with the news that it didn't seem to hit bone.

The ambulance finally came and took her away to the hospital, with Sherlock and John following anxiously in a taxi.

"What's taking them so long?!"

"Sit down, Sherlock. You know how it is in hospital. They may have had a bigger emergency they had to take first."

"Bigger?! She was shot!"

"But it's not life threatening. Please, just sit."

He sat down, but it didn't last. He was back up and pacing again within seconds.

A doctor eventually came out. "Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes? Is she out? Where is she?"

"You're Molly Hooper's fiancé, correct?"

The phrase gave him a jolt. "Uh, yes."

He took Sherlock by the arm to a quiet corner. John watched and when he saw Sherlock shaking his head in denial, he knew the worst had happened.

John sat down and waited for his friend to come back. Sherlock sat down without a word and bent over to put his face in his hands. John couldn't find the courage to ask what had happened. He watched Sherlock breathing hard and felt such empathy for him.

Sherlock rubbed his face and sat back. "And just like that, John."

"What?"

"In the course of a single day I've gone from expectant father…to nothing."

"Sherlock… I am so sorry for you and Molly. But you know—"

"I don't want to hear it, John," he interrupted and stood up. He paced about again until a nurse came out to tell him he could see her.

A knot twisted itself in Sherlock's stomach as he went to Molly's bed. He drew in a deep breath before pulling aside the curtain. She looked up with sad eyes, but then looked away. Sherlock felt a helplessness like never before. His intellect was useless here. He knew she needed him worse than anyone ever did in his life at this moment. He could only hope he didn't say the wrong thing—like usual.

Feeling like an awkward school boy, he came over and sat down on her bed and picked up her hand. He was always amazed how much smaller her hand was to his. He studied it, caressed it, then drew it up to kiss it. She began to cry. "I already…" she started, but trailed off.

"You already what?"

"I already loved it," she barely got out.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't stand to see her in such pain. His heart broke for the very first time.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"For what?" he asked with indignation. She had nothing to apologize to him.

"Putting you through everything."

"I should be the one apologizing. I now have to be more careful and not antagonize potential murderers."

"It was an accident—he wasn't going to shoot."

He looked at her. Here she was, in hurting so much, but still managing to see the best in people. She amazed him. He wiped her hair back from her face and leaned down and placed a gentle kiss upon her brow. She rolled her head toward him and he could see her dark eyes filled with tears.

"It was so odd while ago," he remarked.

"What?"

"The doctor asked if I was your fiancé. Never thought that word would _ever_ be applied to me!"

She gave a nervous smile. She hesitated, but then asked, "Are you still?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't _have_ _to_ now."

"I didn't _have_ _to_ then."

"You're still going to marry me?"

"Once I make up my mind to do something, I do it."

She closed her eyes and more tears rolled down her cheeks. "I didn't think you would. I thought you would chuck me out after all this."

"No. Although why _you_ still want to marry _me_ after all this, is quite inconceivable." He found himself fighting back tears. "I have gotten quite used to you."

She smiled and he leaned over and held her for dear life. He kissed her tears away and whispered, "I love you, Molly Hooper."

"I love you, too, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
